A Pain That I'm Used To
by Enlee
Summary: House and Wilson deal with the aftermath of Merry Little Christmas. HouseWilson. Chapter 28 is now up and running! The Last Chapter. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

I know I did the right thing by making the deal with Tritter. Don't even try to tell me otherwise. I might have to hit you.

Greg didn't take the deal and now he's in deep shit.

All I wanted to do was to help my friend. I lied for him. I was ready to go to jail for him. Now we're both paying for it, big time. All he had to do was take the damn deal and it would saved everyone a lot of grief. But nnnooooo...his principles came first, as screwed up as they are. Ten years in jail for his goddamn principles. We had more than a few glorious screaming matches about it. I couldn't take the tension and fighting anymore. I packed a suitcase and went to a hotel.

That was three weeks ago.

So now here I am, all by myself in a hotel room on the outer rings of hell with a glass of booze for dinner. At the hospital I'm basically alone, except for my patients. Everyone avoids me as much as possible. I don't know if it's because they're still pissed at me or if they just don't know what to say. Either way, the silence is deafening.

Okay, maybe my windfall was a part of the reason I went to Tritter. Not much, but a little. I got my practice back, my car back, my money back, and Tritter off my back. Not that it did any good in the end. That stubborn bastard Greg had to go steal a prescription from my dead patient and overdose. And he calls me an idiot.

I should have warned the pharmacist. Why didn't I think of that? Maybe I am an idiot.

So everyone still treats me like a leper because I wanted to help. Now I know why the phrase 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions' was coined. That person must have had me in mind while writing it down.

I hate being alone. I hate having all my attempts to do what is right blow up in my face. I hate being hurt by the people I care about most. Come to think of it, I hate just about everything and everyone right now.

I even have enough hate left over for Greg. That stubborn bastard.

I miss Greg, stubborn bastard and all.

* * *

A thumping woke me up. At first I thought it was the trashy couple next door and closed my eyes. I was still in my clothes, complete with tie and shoes, sprawled on the hideously uncomfortable bed. I had been drinking too much and was nauseated. Scotch numbs the pain, but it didn't do a damn thing for the loneliness. I should try something else. Unlike a certain someone, I can never get used to being lonely. 

More thumping. It was coming from the door. Someone was at my door.

"I know you're in there," came a muffled, familiar voice. "I can hear you caring."

"Go away!" Just because I missed him hardly meant that I was going to fling open the door and jump into his arms. He was the cause of my misery after all, whether he meant it or not.

"Open the door, please."

"Go away, please."

"Jimmy, I want to talk to you." Thunk, thunk, thunk. He was banging on the door with his cane and making an awful racket.

"No!," I yelled, getting furious. "Just get the hell out of here!"

"Jimmy–"

"Goddammit, go away!"

"Open the fucking door!" He started pounding on the door with everything he had, cane and fists. It was so loud I couldn't hear myself think and he couldn't hear me yell at him to knock it off.

The pounding suddenly stopped and a woman's worried voice cried out, "What in heaven's name is going on out here?"

"Sorry ma'am," Greg said. "My transgendered lover and I are having a fight. See, we don't know whether to smuggle the babies from Romania or China, and–"

I had heard enough. I jumped off the bed, opened the door and dragged him inside while a middle-aged grandma with curlers in her hair watched with eyes the size of garbage can lids.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I asked, mortified. "You don't think you're in enough trouble already?"

He smirked and replied, "It got you to open the door, didn't it?"

"What are you doing here, anyway? Do you want one last look before Tritter hauls your sorry ass off to prison?"

"I'm not going to prison. I did nothing wrong."

"You stole a prescription from my dead patient, you fucking moron. How could you do that? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm not going to prison," he said, avoiding my questions.

"All you had to do was take the damn deal. I made that deal for _you_. Are you listening to me, Greg? I did that _for you_! Two lousy months in rehab. No sanctions from the medical board. And where's my thanks? You and Cuddy and Cameron and everyone else acting like _I'm_ the bad guy, like I'm the one who wants to lock you up and throw away the key."

"If that was such a noble gesture, why did you go behind my back to do it?"

"I didn't."

"It's nice having your car back, isn't it?"

"That had nothing to do with it."

"Liar," he snorted. "Okay, you're a big hero for trying to save me. Are you happy now?"

"I did the right thing."

"Just keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday it will be true."

"You fucking chicken-shit son of a bitch," I spat. "I did the right thing."

He leaned in and narrowed his eyes. "You've been drinking. Trying to drown your guilt?"

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "Greg, please, you're here. What do you want?"

"I wanted to see you."

"Why? To tell me what a good job I did in betraying you? I've already heard that a million times, thank you."

"No," he answered, suddenly sincere. "I got tired of being alone at the apartment and wanted to see how you were doing."

"As you can see, I'm doing just fine," I told him, the sarcasm oozing from my words. I was angry with him and wanted him to know it. I wanted him to see how much he hurt me, to see with his blue eyes that weren't dulled by various narcotics. "I'm drunk in a hotel room, my best friend is going to prison for ten fucking years, and now everyone at the hospital hates my guts because I tried to help you." My voice started to waver. "See, I'm sitting on top of the world. The past few weeks have been the delightful cherry on top of the sundae of my life and I have _you_ to thank for it. So thank you, Gregory House, thank you for everything. Thank you for fucking up my life beyond all recognition. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

I turned away and broke down completely. My legs buckled and I had to sit at the edge of the bed before I collapsed.

"Jimmy." Greg had sat down beside me. I didn't even realize he had moved.

"_What?_" I snapped. "Aren't you finished yet? Are you going to rub my nose in it now?"

"Look," he began with a sigh, "no matter what has happened, or what's going to happen, I never meant to have you dragged into it."

"It's too late for that," I said with a scowl. "I've been dragged through the mud by you and Tritter and everyone else."

"I know," he said, and had the decency to look contrite.

"Goddamn you, Greg. I was trying to help you. All you had to do was take the deal when you had the chance."

"That was my mistake, not yours," he said. "Jimmy, I came here to say I'm sorry."

"Fine, you came here for your half-assed, half-baked worthless apology," I said, still beyond angry and bitter. "Okay, I heard it and it's music to my ears. Now please just get out."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Get out."

"No. I'm not leaving. I can't."

"Greg, so help me–"

"My apology is sincere, whether you believe it or not," he broke in. "I wanted to see you and knew you wouldn't want to see me and would try to throw me out. I needed a way to stay here and be with you; so before I knocked on your door I swallowed a few of your sleeping pills, and they're starting to kick in."

My head jerked up. I gaped at him, incredulous. "Are you completely insane?"

"I'm woozy right now, but I'm not insane." His eyes were now glazed over like a church window. "They're over-the-counter, so in case Tritter stops by feel free to tell him that he can go fuck himself."

I was alarmed. "How many did you take?"

"Three. Just three. Don't have a panic attack."

Greg and his devious little tricks. I should have known.

"Damn, these suckers work _fast_...," Greg mumbled as he fell back, barely awake. His eyelids fluttered and closed. "Jimmy?"

"Yes?" I asked, while watching his quick spiral into unconsciousness.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't leave me, _please_," he muttered before falling asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

For the longest time I just sat there at the edge of the bed with my back to him, listening to his breathing, wondering how he had tracked me down. I hadn't told him where I was going and had been changing hotels every few days. I was surprised he took the time to track me down at all. After the deal-with-Tritter thing blew up, I figured he'd never want to see my face again and would just leave a message on my voice mail telling me to get my stuff out of his apartment before he piled it all on the curb and burned it.

How wrong I was. I looked over and saw him sprawled perpendicular across the bed, unconscious, still in his motorcycle jacket and shoes. His chest was rising and falling with a strong and steady rhythm. His pulse was fine. He wasn't lying about taking just enough sleeping pills to knock him on his ass. And he was right about one thing–I couldn't throw him out. I couldn't and wouldn't risk hurting his leg by dragging him from the fourth floor of this hotel to a cab and he damn well knew it. That bum leg of his came in quite handy sometimes.

The bed was bad and so uncomfortable I thought it must have once been used as a torture device. But I wasn't going to spend the night on the floor so I took a deep breath and set about the long and tiring task of maneuvering Greg the right way on the bed. Trust me, moving six feet and three inches of dead weight isn't easy, especially when said six feet and three inches needs a little extra care so he won't be in screaming pain the next morning. Fifteen minutes and a lot of tugging on his left arm later, I got him righted. I searched his pockets. No more wayward sleeping pills. No pills of any kind at all. That was a tad strange. I took off his shoes and was trying to figure out how to get his jacket off when his eyes blinked open.

"Dad?" he mumbled, looking right through me. "Dad?"

"What is it, Greg?" I asked carefully as his eyes darted around the room, not seeing anything.

"You promised..."

"Promised what?"

"Are we going to see the pyramids tomorrow, Dad? You _promisedddd_..."

"Yes, we're going tomorrow," I replied quietly and he seemed to be happy with the answer. Looking at him right then, one would never guess the troubled mind hiding underneath his tired smile. "I need you to sit up first. Can you do that for me, Greg?"

It took all his effort and some of mine to sit up. I managed to get one sleeve off before he passed out again on my shoulder, mumbling something about sand getting in his hair. With some careful and creative balancing I got the jacket completely off and lay him back onto the pillow. The nights were getting down into the thirties and he was wearing only a thin tee-shirt under his jacket. Getting him under the covers was out of the question. I folded the comforter over him.

Just how long had he been riding around out there in the cold night looking for me? I shuddered at the thought.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't leave me, please._

As if I ever could.

I looked down at the man in my thoughts who was now a million miles away in la-la land. The man who turned my life upside-down, inside-out, forwards, backwards and sideways. The man who loved to push my buttons and drive me absolutely insane just because he could. The man who was probably going to spend the next decade of his life in prison. The man I still loved more than anything.

* * *

Trying to get him to wake up the next morning was just as fun as dragging him across the bed. I shook him and he batted my hand away. I called his name and he ignored me. I tugged on his arm and all I got for my effort was a slurred "_Nnnnooo...I don't wanna go to schooooollll_". Giving up, I went ahead with the unenviable task of punching in Cuddy's number on my cell phone and filling her in on the details. 

"Sleeping pills?" she huffed into the phone. I could almost see her scowling. "Why am I not surprised."

"Yeah, well, he's completely zonked out. It's safe to say that he probably won't be in today."

"Why am I not surprised at that either?"

"For what it's worth, I don't think he was aware of how powerful those sleeping pills are. He took them so I wouldn't be able to throw him out, not so he could get out of a days work."

"That doesn't make it all better, Dr. Wilson."

"It wasn't supposed to."

"I'm still short a diagnostician for the day."

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about that. He's not going anywhere today. He's unconscious at the moment and the few times he woke up he was completely disoriented. He thought I was his father."

"Fine," she sighed. "Is he going to be okay by himself or am I going to be short an oncologist too?"

"I'm sure he'll be fine. He'll probably sleep the rest of the day. I'll leave him a note and he's got his cell phone. I'll be there in about twenty minutes, Dr. Cuddy."

"All right. I'll see you later, Dr. Wilson."

* * *

My pager went off around 2pm. I knew who it was before I even looked at the number. 

"Where the hell are you?" Greg growled into the phone.

"I'm at the hospital, where you should be. Didn't you get my note? Are you still at the hotel?"

"Yes, I'm still at the hotel. By the way, fuck you and fuck your note."

"Greg, if all you're going to do is swear and insult me, I'm going to hang up right now."

"Why aren't you _here_?"

"Because I have a job to do."

"Goddammit, Jimmy, I wanna see you. I wanna talk to you." His voice still had a slur to it. Either the pills were still in his system or he had helped himself to my booze. Probably a little bit of both.

"I know, I know. I'm busy right now," I said.

"I wanna see you _now_."

"I can't–"

"_Now_!"

"No, Greg. No," I said firmly. The sooner he learned that I wasn't going to drop everything in a heartbeat and see him just because he demanded, the better. "I have work to do and I have every intention of finishing it. Now you can either wait for me or I'm checking into a different hotel tonight."

"Your suitcase is still here with me. Lots of nice clothes."

"I can buy more clothes. You can either wait and we'll talk in a few hours, or we're not talking at all. Do you hear me?"

No answer, just static crackling across the line.

"Greg?"

"Yeah," he muttered. "I heard you."

"I have to go now. I promise we'll talk later."

"Hurry up and get your sorry ass back here. And bring some fucking food." _Click_.


	3. Chapter 3

He was on one side of the bed and I was on the other. The only thing missing was a duct-tape border down the center.

We ate our sandwiches and chips and watched _Wheel of Fortune_, looking straight ahead, pretending not to notice the tension swirling like smoke in the room. We were putting off the inevitable shouting match yet to come, but at least we had a halfway decent excuse. Greg was honestly hungry, so I let him wolf down his reuben in relative peace. I was hungry as well and needed a decent meal to have the energy to argue with him.

"I want you to come back home," Greg said calmly after polishing off the last of his chips and clicking off the television.

That got my attention. "What for?"

"Do you need a reason? Do I? It's _our_ apartment, remember?"

"In this case I do need a good reason," I said. "Tell me why I should even consider it."

"Because you're miserable in these hotels, you're miserable without me, and I'm miserable without you."

"Is that supposed to make me come running back home? That's not good enough."

"Why not? Like you said, misery loves company. There's no reason why we can't be miserable under the same roof."

All the anger and bitterness came flooding back. "If you're so miserable without me, why did you spend Christmas with a bottle of stolen pills instead of me?"

"And why did you leave me face-first in a puddle of my own puke while I was overdosing?" He looked at me for the first time since I walked in the door; his glare could have stripped the finish off a picnic table. "What a lovely Christmas present _that_ was. Don't you even start your pathetic poor-little-put-upon victim act with me, Jimmy, because you know damn good and well I'm not going to buy it for a second."

"I got you a deal and you didn't take. Thank you very much for _that_ Christmas present."

"You're quite welcome. How did it feel to sell your soul to Tritter?"

It took every last ounce of self-control to keep from punching him in the jaw. "I got you a deal and you still chose your so-called principles over me."

"You're going to throw that in my face every chance you get, aren't you?"

"Just like you're going to throw my making the deal in my face, Greg."

"You're right. If you're going to hang that over my head for the rest of eternity, maybe I don't want you to come home after all."

"Yeah, that's why you went out of your way to find me," I said blithely. "How did you know where I was staying?"

A knowing smile curled on his mouth. "I had you followed."

"What? Who the hell followed me?"

"He'd prefer to remain nameless. I promised I wouldn't divulge it. Seeing as how you're in a fighting and arguing mood, you'll probably run off and I'll have to hire him again."

I hadn't noticed anyone in the hallway while finding my room. "How did you know which room I was in?"

"A few well-placed greenbacks in the right hands got all the information I wanted."

I sighed and shook my head. Well, that explained why he was wearing just the tee shirt under his jacket. He knew exactly where I was because he hired a mystery man to shadow my every move. It never ceased to amaze how far he was willing to go to get what he wanted, and how he wasn't going to let me go that easily.

"I need to keep an eye on what's mine," he said, gloating over my reaction.

"Even if I sold my soul?"

"I was thinking maybe Tritter could put it to good use, but since he doesn't have a soul either he probably doesn't know what the hell to do with it."

"Greg, you're not really convincing me to come back home."

"Hmmm...you have a point there. Well then, I guess we'll just have to go about this from a different angle. How about this–it's your turn to convince me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Give me a reason why I should let you back into our apartment."

"Are you serious?"

"You better fucking believe I'm serious," he answered tersely. "Do I look like I'm the mood to play games right now?"

"No," I said. "No, you're little trick is not going to work. I'm not going to beg."

"I'm not asking you to beg," he replied solemnly. No humor or malice in his expression, just weariness and gloom. "I'm just asking you for a good reason."

"What's your definition of a good reason?" I had to ask.

"I'll know it when I hear it. Surely a man such as yourself, who wanted to do the right thing for me, had a very compelling reason or two for selling his soul. So tell me, what was it?"

Before I packed a suitcase and began to camp out at various hotels, we had been too busy screaming at each other about my supposed betrayal to have a real conversation. There was something I had been wanting to tell him. I never got the chance to get the words out because he would always cut me off. It didn't really have anything to do with 'selling my soul', as he so kindly put it. If I did sell my soul, I think what I was about to say bought it back. I wasn't sure if he would believe what I was about to tell him, but now that he was finally listening it was now or never.

"Back when the deal was still on the table," I began carefully, "I had a talk with Tritter."

"About what?" Apprehension spread across his face like ripples on water.

"About you. I was still holding out hope that you would take it. I knew you wouldn't, but I still had that hope. Anyway, I told Tritter I wasn't going to testify against you." Greg said nothing, just gaped at me with his jaw brushing against the blankets. "I wasn't going to testify and he couldn't make me. He said something about using my original statement, having me arrested for interfering with an investigation, and both of us ending up in jail. I told him that you were the better doctor and it would be better if I went to jail instead of you."

We stared at each other for a few minutes, frozen in place, neither of us willing to break the edgy silence, afraid that we would set off the spark that would make atmosphere around us go up in a fireball of unrestrained emotions. I watched, fascinated, as his expression changed; flowing seamlessly from unbelieving to accepting to resigned. He knew I was telling the truth and he could see it crystal clear. He hadn't known or expected that I was willing to go that far for him, and much to my own quiet, smug satisfaction, it blindsided him like a good backhand across the jaw.

Before I had a chance to gloat about my good deed and enjoy the hell out of it, Greg muttered, "Oh my God," and made a mad dash for the bathroom. A few seconds later I heard the sound of retching, followed by the toilet flushing and running water.

When he didn't come back out, I went to the bathroom and found him sitting on the edge of the bathtub, resting his head on the handle of his cane. I sat down next to him. He didn't look up.

"I want to go back home," I said quietly, "but I'm not going to if you're going to have me there just to watch you self-destruct."

The room was quiet for a few minutes, the only sound was a buzzing from the lights.

"I need some help," he finally confessed to the floor, unable to look me in the eye and admit his defeat, "and I need you there to help me."


	4. Chapter 4

If I didn't know any better, I'd say that Greg was using sleep as a way of temporarily escaping his troubles. I found it rather strange for an insomniac to use sleep as a refuge, but hey, it was better than stealing another bottle of narcotics. Nothing could bother him while he was out cold and lost inside his own little world. He was safe from everything there. Safe inside his own head, his favorite place to be. Several hours earlier he had pulled another sleeping pill out of nowhere and swallowed it before I could react. At least I was able to help him get undressed and under the covers before it kicked in this time. After he fell into dreamland I did a more thorough search of his clothes and found a hidden pocket in his motorcycle jacket that held some more sleeping pills and Vicodin. I left the Vicodin alone and flushed the rest of the sleeping pills down the toilet.

I stretched out next to him, listening to his faint snoring mix in with the sounds of traffic from the street below. As the night silently ticked away, I rested my head against shoulder and regretted not saving a sleeping pill for my own troubled sleep. Over and over again my mind replayed our conversations from that evening. Rewind, fast-forward, freeze-frame; I analyzed every word, trying to make sense of it all and trying to figure out where the hell to go from here, if there was any place to go at all.

"_I can't lose you, Jimmy," he told me earlier, still sitting on the edge of the bathtub. "I can't even think about losing you. You're the only thing I have left in the world."_

"_I can't you lose you either, Greg," I had said, "but you need more help than I can provide."_

"_That's not the kind of help I want."_

"_Greg, in case you haven't noticed, you don't have a choice anymore."_

Even after all these years I still didn't know exactly what made him tick, what horrible demons drove him to self-destruct. But I accepted him for what he was, demons, drug habits and all, and I suppose that was the reason why he let me get as close to him as anyone has ever been. And he accepted me, a queer cheating hypocrite bastard husband. The strange puzzle pieces of our lives somehow fit together. We couldn't explain it. We didn't want to explain it. We didn't question why or how. Both of us were damaged, yet we managed to balance each other out with our bizarre versions of need and intimacy. We just knew that the other filled the big gaping holes left behind by certain wives and girlfriends we had loved and lost.

"_I'll came back home on one condition," I had said. _

"_Of course there has to be a _condition_," he had sneered, but then he had shut up to hear what it was._

"_You go to rehab."_

_Greg had given me a despondent look mixed with a touch of anger and fear. "I don't really have a choice anymore, do I?"_

"_No, you don't."_

"_For the sake of argument, what if I don't go to rehab?"_

"_Then you're on your own."_

Not that I could ever do that, but the threat seemed to be enough for him.

His breath caught in the back of his throat for a moment, then it resumed its normal, steady pace. The streetlamps below let in just enough light so I could see his eyelashes resting against his cheekbones, silver strands running through his hair. I sighed and inched my way closer, draping an arm over his chest. He was right about another thing: I could never bring myself to hate him, no matter what he threw at me. I would always be there to catch him when he fell. Whether that makes me a loyal friend or an unbelievable idiot remains to be seen.

"_What happens if you go to prison?" I had asked before he pulled the sleeping pill trick again._

"_I'm not going to prison," Greg had responded dully, staring blankly out the window._

"_What if you do?" I had kept pressing even though he wasn't in the mood to talk anymore. I think that's what broke the camel's back and drove him into another drug-induced slumber. _

"_It's not going to happen."_

"_What if it does? What's going to happen to us?"_

"_Nothing is going to happen, so quit your worrying."_

"_You don't know that," I had replied with an edge in my voice, seething at his seeming indifference. _

"_Neither do you," he had replied, turning back to me. "What do you want me to say, huh? What? That everything is going to be just fine and dandy, that we're going to live happily ever after? I hate to be the one to break this to you but life doesn't quite work that way. Anyway, it's not up to you or me or Tritter. It's up to a jury. We'll just have to wait and see."_

Yes, we will. Waiting will be the hardest part of all.

Greg grunted and turned over, throwing an arm over my waist, his head coming to rest on my chest. I let myself smile at that and enjoy the feeling of being close to him again after way too many long and lonely nights apart. I lightly stroked his cheek knowing full well he couldn't feel a damn thing; besides, it was more for my own quiet and selfish satisfaction. That same selfish part of me had wanted him to be the one to blink first, to be the one who came knocking on my door, and he did. That had more than made up for the screaming, the fighting, the angry words, the time spent cold hotel beds. No matter what happened in the future, I would always have that memory to savor. I pulled my selfish satisfaction over me like a spare blanket and drifted off.


	5. Chapter 5

I reluctantly got him up a little bit earlier than usual so he could run home, take a shower, get some clean clothes and make it to the hospital at a reasonable hour. The first cup of the godawful hotel coffee did absolutely nothing to flush the tiredness and lingering remains of the sleeping pills out of his system. I ran to the Starbucks next door and got two of the biggest, most caffeine filled coffees they had, tipping the barista an extra ten dollars while babbling about how she was doing a wonderful service for all of mankind. Thankfully this cup of super-coffee went to work on him and he began to resemble a human being again.

"You okay to ride your bike?" I asked him, letting the wonderful caffeine buzz flow throw my veins. Greg wasn't the only one who needed an extra jolt that morning before facing another long day. I had managed to get just under five hours of sleep before hauling my half-dead body out of bed that morning. "Do you need a taxi?"

"I'm perfectly fine," he muttered, lounging on the bed and finishing his coffee while watching me putter around the room in my morning routine like he had nothing better to do. No hurry to get up and back to diagnosing exotic diseases with unpronounceable names. Cuddy was going to blow a gasket.

"Are you going to be on time? What should I tell Cuddy?"

"Tell her I'll be there when I get there. Or tell her nothing at all. Either way, I don't care."

"Fine," I said, and opened the suitcase to hunt down my blue and green checked tie. "She's going to come and ask me if you're in another sleeping pill induced coma, so I'm going to have to tell her something. Just don't come crying to me when she rips you a new one."

"I can handle Cuddy," he replied, then gulped down the last of his coffee and crushed the cup. He carelessly tossed it in the general direction of the trash can and missed it by a good three feet. Neither of us made an effort to pick it up.

"I know you can–"

"Goddamn right I can. Did I detect some doubt in your voice, Dr. Wilson?"

I looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. "Just keep in mind she has the power to fire you."

"Being as you seem to remind me of that fact at least once a month, there is no way I can forget."

"Good. I hope you never will." I began to pull the damn suitcase apart. The damn tie had disappeared into laundry oblivion, along with half my socks.

"If she wanted me gone I'd be gone by now," my friend said with a faint smile. "I guess I can say the same thing about you. Staying by my side until the bitter end, Jimmy?"

"I'm by your side because I want to be," I replied a bit tersely, making damn well sure that he knew I meant every word of what I was saying. The need to look after him, to make sure he was going to be okay, rose in me like flood waters and threatened to carry me off. "Bitter end or not, I'm here to stay."

"Is that why you left the apartment and checked into this hell hole?"

"It's not like I moved to the remote Alaskan wilderness," I said. "I'll be back at _our_ apartment tonight."

"Damn right you will be, if I have to drag you by your perfectly blow-dried hair." He looked at my suitcase and frowned. "Hold it."

"What is it?" I frowned with him, then looked down at the jumbled pile of clothes I was rummaging through, wondering what the hell caught his eye and what was so fascinating about it. "What are you looking at?"

"Don't move." He slid off the bed and made a beeline for my suitcase, his eyes wide and locked on something, never blinking.

I followed his gaze and saw a corner of white plaster peaking out from the upper pocket.

Without a word, Greg gently pushed me aside and reached for the pocket, pulling out a small section of the cast that had been on my arm. It had been hidden away in the spare bedroom since I knew Greg would tease me about it mercilessly if he ever happened to see it. I had forgotten that I brought it with me. I hadn't had time to think about it since he arrived at my door. The initials GH+JW were still very visible in the permanent ink he had used to scrawl them on there.

"You saved this?" He eyed the plaster like it was a priceless treasure.

Instead of answering, I just carefully took it out of his hands and tucked it back into the pocket.

"I was banging on the door and calling you a coward for packing up and leaving," he said in a low, shaky voice. The color drained from his face. His legs threatened to buckle. All because of a little piece of plaster with our initials on it.

"Yes, I remember that."

"You still brought that with you instead of smashing it on the floor."

"The thought of smashing it never crossed my mind."

"Why did you save it? Why did you bring it with you?"

"You took care of me when I had shingles," I began, "and you took care of me when I broke my arm and had terrible migraines. You were there when I needed you. I guess I brought that with me as a reminder of why I need to come back and be there for you."


	6. Chapter 6

Home sweet home.

I sat back on the sofa with a glass of bourbon and waited for Greg to finish up his shower. It was immeasurably satisfying to be back in the apartment, with all the familiar shapes, scents, shadows and comfortable furniture. Words cannot express how wonderful it will be to sleep in a cozy bed, a bed I know all the creaks and squeaks of. I won't wake up in the middle of the night and wonder where the hell I am, then remind myself that I'm in yet another lousy hotel. I won't have to stare at the television in an empty room. I won't have to wake up alone.

Strange. I've been back at the apartment for a whole hour and it feels like I never left. The hotels suddenly seem like a distant, faded memory. They can stay that way.

Greg came out of the bathroom, flushed from all the pounding hot water, his tee-shirt and sweatpants clinging to his still damp skin. He gave me a tiny smile, one that touched his eyes more than his mouth, then limped over and sank into the cushion next to me. The fresh scent of soap soon wafted over to where I was sitting, while swirls of steam rose up all around him.

"Hey," he said, and looked me over, like he couldn't quite believe I was there and would disappear if he so much as glanced away.

"Hey yourself," I replied.

"It's nice to have you back."

"It's nice to be back. Those hotels got old real fast."

"I can imagine," Greg said with a light chuckle, then whatever humor he was feeling faded away and was replaced by a deep sadness entwined with more than a little guilt. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

"You're a better friend than I deserve."

"How can you say–"

"I really thought you were going to leave for good this time," he interrupted, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. "I kept waiting for your goodbye message on the answering machine or a note taped to my office door."

"I kept waiting for you to start a bonfire with all the stuff I keep in the spare bedroom. I guess that makes us even."

That got another light chuckle out of him. "I should burn those ugly ties of yours anyway, just for the hell of it." He spun the cane in lazy circles. "I really screwed up, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did." No need to lie. Ever since he crossed paths with Tritter everything had been positively chaotic. Quiet, peaceful moments have been few and far between.

"I thought I was in control. Even when I stole those pills from the pharmacy I thought I was in control. Just a few pills to dull the pain and everything would be fine. Just like always. One more pill...then another...then another...Believe it or not, there was one good thing about you leaving me in my own vomit."

"What's that?" I puzzled, suddenly afraid he was going to turn angry and scream at me again.

"That's when I realized that I wasn't in control anymore. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before and it was scary. Very scary. Cuddy once told me I was on my way to becoming a junkie, and she was right."

Only then did I look down and see that Greg was gripping his cane so hard that it threatened to snap in half at any moment. Bulging veins stood out against his white knuckles. He was also lying to me. He wasn't scared at all, he was absolutely terrified. He just admitted to stealing the pills and being well one the bumpy road to being a junkie. Add a possible prison sentence into the mix and it makes a terrified Greg House. Terrified of losing control, terrified of losing his freedom, terrified of losing everything because of some little white pills.

"When I came to your hotel room I was surprised you let me in," he went on. "After hardly seeing you for weeks I figured you had finally had enough and wasn't willing to give a bastard like me another chance that I don't deserve."

"You keep saying that you're surprised that I'm still here," I observed. "My whole life is here with you and with the hospital. I can't–and won't–leave it all behind. You need some help right now and I'll be here to help you, but you have to want to help yourself too, Greg."

"You make it sound so easy, Jimmy."

"I shouldn't. It's not going to be. If you were so convinced that I was history, why did you come to the hotel to ask for my help to begin with?"

"Because I need your help more than anything right now. I can't do this alone."

"What if I hadn't opened the door? What would you have done?"

_If he tells me he was going to swallow a whole bottle of Vicodin I swear I'm going to scream..._

"If you had just refused to open the door, I would have broke it down. If you had not been there at all...well, I guess Cuddy would be dealing with a heartbroken drug addict right now."

I exhaled the breath I didn't realize I was holding. Right now he was hurting more from emotional pain. The physical pain barely registered.

"You hurt me, Greg," I said curtly, wanting to get it out and get it over with. "You really hurt me."

"I know," he said sadly.

"Part of me didn't want to open that door."

"Can't say that I blame that part of you."

"You're going into rehab." It wasn't a question. I didn't even need to say it gain, but I wanted to just to show him I was serious. I may not leave Princeton, but I might have to leave him if he doesn't put an honest effort into turning his drug habit around.

"I am."

"I've been waiting a long time to here that," I said.

"I'm glad you were willing to wait," he told me, and began to spin the cane in lazy circles again.


	7. Chapter 7

I turned off the light and had just settled in. The comfort of another human being next to me, the soft mattress and sheets, I soaked it all in. While lost in the glorious concept of being able to sleep in a warm, comfortable and familiar bed, I was yanked out of my coziness and into some rough hands and a scratchy beard.

"Don't move and don't make a sound." His voice was low and serious. The rough hands pawed at my hair, picking up where he left off three weeks before. "You were gone way too long," Greg continued while reassuring himself that he wasn't alone that night, running his hands all over my skin and tugging at my clothes. If he kept at it I was going to look like a birthday present torn open in a frenzy before daylight.

I squirmed around a little too much, then made the mistake of muttering, "Sorry".

"I told you to be quiet," he growled into my ear. "Just sit still and be quiet. Do you think you can handle that or do I need to get out some more sleeping pills?"

He was all weirded out again, giving me a refresher course of who was in charge and who I belonged to. In some bizarre way I could understand why he needed to do this. Greg wasn't touchy-feely unless it was on his terms and followed his ever changing set of rules. Me being gone for so long altered his play-book. On the other hand, I wasn't expecting it so soon. He must possess some kind of sixth sense that tells him when I'm going to be caught off guard by his strange moods.

Time to fight fire with fire. I seized his wrists and I heard a faint gasp of surprise from his side of the bed. I chuckled in the dark room. "What if I don't want to shut up?" I matched his gravelly voice with my own. "Should I leave for another three weeks?"

"No. Just be quiet."

"I don't want to be quiet. What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know. What should I do?" Far from angry at my sudden burst of defiance, he sounded amused more than anything.

"Gag me with a tie?"

"I'd have to look for them."

"You haven't found them yet? It's not like they're hidden in Timbuktu or anything."

"Too much work. I'm haven't been in the mood. I've had other things on my mind."

"Fair enough. Tell you what, just keep doing what you were doing before without all the restrictions on me," I said, softening my voice and letting go of his wrists.

The bed dipped with all of its wonderfully prosaic creaks and squeaks as he inched closer, then gathered me up in his arms like a giant teddy bear. Not rough this time, just the moves of man seeking some comfort. That was something I could sit still for. I needed some comfort too. Maybe more than he did.

Neither of us said another word for the rest of the night.

* * *

Greg cast a suspicious glance in my direction when I set a heaping plate of macadamia nut pancakes in front of him. "What is this, a bribe?" 

"Just thought I'd start the morning off on the right foot, for you and me," I drolled, and turned back to the stove. "But you can call it a bribe if you want. You're not going to hurt my feelings."

"I'm not going to mess with the person who handles my food, especially when he has access to all kinds of nasty substances."

"And knows how to use them," I pointed out.

"_Hmph_," was his witty reply. Whatever he truly thought the breakfast symbolized, good or bad, that didn't stop him from dumping a quart of syrup on them and scarfing them down like he was in an eating contest.

By the time I got my plate to the table, he was nearly done. One lonesome pancake was drowning in a lake of syrup on his plate. Then, like a complete moron, I fell for the old 'what's that behind your back' trick, and he speared a pancake off my plate before I could turn back around. One of these days I might learn, but that will the day a masked killer with a machete is sneaking up behind me.

"All you had to do was ask for some more," I said with a scowl and pulled what was left of my breakfast out of his reach.

"Yours always taste so much better," he replied, and made an overblown production of munching on his ill-gotten prize.

If I was going to survive until lunch, I had to eat faster and not be too obvious. He noticed, of course, and that made his damnable smirk even broader. "It's nice to see that all those nights of eating take-out didn't spoil your culinary skills," he said. "Frozen pancakes and waffles just can't compare to these."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Is this the real reason why you wanted me to come back? For pancakes?"

"That, too."

"It's nice to know where your priorities really were when you showed up at the hotel."

"I just complimented your cooking, Jimmy. You of all people should know that I don't toss out compliments all that often. Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it."

"Good. Now aren't you glad you opened the door?"


	8. Chapter 8

It was windy and freezing, so Greg decided to take advantage of the almost too good heater in my car while I played chauffeur. We strode into the hospital together for the first time in weeks, like nothing had ever happened, like nothing was threatening to come between us. Just another day. More than a few gaping stares were aimed in our direction. Let them stare. I had more important things to worry about than what a few gossipy nurses thought about our private life. Though I'd like to think that they're watching our every move because they're jealous.

From the corner of my eye I saw Greg reach for that all-too-familiar brown plastic bottle. The bottle that held his salvation and downfall. A little brown prescription bottle filled with little white pills. That damned bottle of Vicodin, still very much a part of his life, and by association, mine. Sure, he said he was going to rehab, but he didn't say _when_. He was going to try and put it off as long as possible. I was going to have a talk about that with him later.

Cuddy came around the corner and did a double take. I smiled at her and nodded my head in a friendly greeting. Glancing over at Greg, I could see a ghost of a smile on his scruffy face.

"Good morning," she welcomed us, trying to hide her surprise and failing spectacularly.

"Morning, boss," my friend murmured. His expression returned to stoic and gave away nothing. A flicker of mirth sparked in his eyes and disappeared as quickly as distant lightning. He only acknowledged her because she acknowledge him first. If she hadn't said anything he would have walked right past her and up to his office, his mind turning a mile a minute, trying to figure out if it was humanly possible to beat the drug charges.

"Feeling better today, Dr. House?" Cuddy inquired, and handed him a file. New patient. New case. Hopefully it would be a sufficient challenge and offer a distraction for a while. "Any more marathon sleep-fests in your future?

"I'm here, aren't I?" he answered languidly, as if he could be on the moon for all he cared at the moment. "I can turn around and go right back home if you want. I could use another day or two off."

"Over my dead body," our boss replied. "Your team is waiting for you." He wasn't getting out of work today unless it was a damned good reason, like being abducted by aliens. Even then she would have him make up his clinic hours.

"I drove you today," I reminded him, and watched as Cuddy's smile broadened. "You're not leaving until I am."

"No excuses today, Dr. House," Cuddy gloated. "You're not setting foot outside until it's time for you to leave and not one second sooner."

"Such fun," Greg scowled. He eyed our boss. "Can I go see my patient now or is there some other obvious fact you're just _dying_ to tell me?"

"Grass is green and the sky is blue," she replied with more than a little sarcasm.

"I never would have guessed. Thank you for your brilliant insight. Now would you mind getting out of my way or should I tell my team and anyone else I happen to run into that you kept me down here and dispensed useless non-medical trivia facts while a patient needed my help?" Greg didn't wait for answer and limped around her. I caught a twitch of a grin on his face when Cuddy's smile collapsed.

He stared straight ahead and waited for me to punch our floor button.

"We were just joking around, you know," I said.

"You were joking around at my expense. I really don't appreciate that at this point in time."

"It wasn't at your expense. It was just joking around, period. You've done the same thing with us a hundred times."

"You and Cuddy aren't facing a prison sentence. Still aren't as far as I know," he said glumly. "If you don't mind I'd like to leave the joking and teasing for a later date."

"All right," I agreed. I didn't need him to blow up twelve whole hours after I moved back in. Another night in a hotel bed and I'd end up checking myself into the psych ward.

_Please let his latest case be a challenge, something to get his mind off the Tritter fiasco..._

We stepped off the elevator and made our way to our respective offices.

"Are you leaving here at a decent hour or am I going to have to cab it home?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"You better find out real damn quick. I didn't get you to move back in just so you can spend every waking moment in your office."

"Yeah, God forbid I actually give my patients some attention." I muttered with a roll of my eyes.

"You need to give some of that attention to me," he said tersely, and I nearly choked.

Before I could ask what the hell he meant by that, we saw Cameron was peeking out the door of the conference room and when she saw us a look of concern clouded her features. After realizing that Greg and I were, for the most part, on friendly terms again, the clouds lifted in record time and a bright sunbeam of grin nearly blinded us.

"New case," Greg said, holding up the file. "Gather the troops and make sure the whiteboard and markers are in working order."

"The white board is where it always is. We've been in there for half an hour waiting for you," Cameron answered, a bit puzzled.

"Since my boss decided to delight me with the wonders of green and blue, I'm running a little late today." he said as the immunologist's brow furrowed in further confusion. "Put some coffee on. I'll be in there in a few," he finished, turning to me and waiting until his underling was out of sight.

"You want some attention from me?" I asked before he could speak. "Feeling neglected lately?" I bit my tongue to keep from giggling like the proverbial fool.

He answered, "A little." Then he looked up at me with a faint grin and sad eyes.

"I wonder why."

"Like hell you do. Leave the lying for a later date, along with the teasing."

"Trying to make up for lost time?"

"You could say that."

"Barring any last-minute emergencies, I should be leaving at a decent hour," I informed him. "How does that sound?"

"Sounds great. You better be ready to make some more of those pancakes."

"Well then, you better be ready to go grocery shopping with me tonight," I said, and turned to my office.


	9. Chapter 9

"What the hell is all that for?" Greg frowned as I piled fresh and canned fruit into the cart.

"You probably didn't eat a single piece of fruit while I was gone," I said, bagging up some out-of-season and outrageously expensive cherries. "Am I right?"

"I had two or three strawberry shakes," he replied defensively. "Does that count?"

"No."

"I say it does. When I come down with scurvy then you can say I was wrong."

"Greg, you can't keep gorging on junk food like that."

"Why not? Food is food is food."

"No, it's not."

"Who says?"

"Doctors for starters. Sooner or later all that crap is going to catch up with you."

"Diet advice from the man who stuffs himself and me with macadamia nut pancakes. Excuse me while I call the irony police."

"I also stuff you and myself with some healthy food every now and then too."

"Oh, I get it now," he said as we made our way to the flour and sugar, the sweet, cloying scent filling the entire aisle. I was the official grocery scout and he was the cart pusher. Even if his leg was perfectly fine, he'd still push the cart and make me get everything he wanted from the high shelves. "You let me in your hotel room because you were afraid that I was going to eat too many Twinkies and go on a rampage."

"If that's what you want to believe." I shrugged off his rancor like an old coat.

"All right, then; I will. I find it funny that a _queer_ like you fills up his shopping cart with all this here _fruit_. How very _poetic_. Or am I reading too much into this?"

Thankfully, the aisle was practically empty. A roly-poly mom with a whiny brat hanging off the cart turned the corner, not hearing us over her obnoxious child. Not that Greg would have hesitated for a second if the store had been packed wall to wall. I shot daggers at him and he only smirked in return.

"Behave," I warned him in a low voice, tossing in a bag of flour.

"Or what?" he challenged, his eyes glittering as if he had been waiting all day to try and rattle my cage. "Are you going to send me to bed without any dinner? Ground me for a week? Gonna _spank_ me for being _bad_, Dr. Wilson?"

Pushing my buttons, testing my patience, right here in a public place. Being all alone in the apartment with no one, namely me, to tease, he must have been climbing the walls by the time he hired someone to follow me back to the hotel.

"Behave," I warned again, "or I'm putting all these ingredients back and you can make your own pancakes by adding water and stirring."

"Is that supposed to be a threat? I'm shaking in my sneakers. Really."

"It's a promise." I put the flour back on the shelf, and reached for the macadamia nuts. Greg seized my hand before it even touched the bag.

"Promises were made to be broken," he said, the smirk still plastered on his face.

I pulled my hand out of his grip. "Can you keep your queer remarks to yourself until we get home?"

He looked me right in the eye, put his hand to his heart, and answered, "I promise."

* * *

Everything for the pancakes was left out on the counter as I helped put the rest of the groceries away. Actually, I put most of the stuff away while Greg drank a Pepsi and watched. In other words, the usual. I asked him to get out the big mixing bowl, he could at least do _that_ for me, while I hunted down the big frying pan. Buried on the bottom shelf. The most inconvenient place in the kitchen and he insists on hiding it there. Probably just to watch me dig it out. I did, and the damn thing was still in my hand when I was suddenly seized from behind and thrown against the refrigerator. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded, wondering if he had picked the most inopportune moment to finally lose his mind.

"You should know by now," he said in a strangely calm and determined voice. Before I could do anything, he grabbed the frying pan out of my hand and threw it on the floor. Then I saw that his pupils were dilated and it wasn't from drugs. His eyes were fixed on me, the way a hawk fixes on a field mouse before it swoops in for the kill.

"Can't this wait–"

"No," Greg answered cooly, pushing me back against the refrigerator door.

"But–"

The words were cut off as he pressed his mouth to mine, feeding the kiss with a fierce and raw passion, and he was _so damned_ _good_ at that. All my frustration, anger, resentment, and regret melted away as I fed back with everything I had, wrapping my arms around his neck, wanting him to get closer and closer even as his heat joined with mine and the room became too hot and I could have cared less. All I cared about was him and me, me and him, we were together again, the way we were supposed to be. His pelvis ground into mine and I couldn't help but moan. My self-control was waning, my knees were buckling; his body weight was the only thing holding me up. I could feel him smiling as the wonderful raw kisses continued.

He finally broke away, breathless, and I bit my lower lip as I felt the blush climb from my neck to my cheeks. My heart slammed into my chest and the sound filled the kitchen. Or maybe I was just hearing things as my brain scrambled to form a coherent thought.

"Gonna pay some attention to me now, Jimmy?" he sneered. "Do I have your attention now?"

"Yes," I gasped. My pupils had probably grown to the size of his in the half-second it took to get that word out.

"Good."

"I thought you were hungry," I murmured shakily.

"Dinner can wait. I want dessert first."

He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head backwards before kissing me again.

He was right. Dinner could wait. Having dessert first was a truly fine idea.


	10. Chapter 10

My friend is a very intense man. When Gregory House sets his sights on something, he will stop at nothing to chase it down, solve the puzzle, get what he wants out of it. It can be a bad thing, but not always. Not when it comes to solving a particularly difficult case or convincing his best friend to come back home. Those are a few situations that call for some good old fashioned intensity. So when he had me pinned against the fridge, nothing short of the floor suddenly giving away was going to get me out of there. Not that I wanted to leave those deep, raw kisses for some damn pancakes. I was enjoying myself and it's safe to say that he was too.

The kitchen wasn't exactly the most comfortable place for him or for me. Soon I found myself being all but dragged to the bedroom. The intensity radiated off Greg the way a sidewalk radiates heat in the summer. He moved as fast as the cane would allow, pulling me behind him, and when he glanced over his shoulder his eyes appeared to glow like blue flames.

We had barely crossed the threshold when he threw me in the general direction of the bed. I say he tried to throw me, but pushed too hard and nearly sent himself tumbling onto the floor. That was actually a good thing. If he hadn't been off balance then I would have gone through the wall and landed on the sidewalk.

"Take your shirt off," he ordered.

"Why should I?"

"Because I told you to, that's why. Now take your shirt off."

"Why don't you make me," I challenged. That's exactly what he wanted–he was smiling–and I was more than willing to give him all he could handle and then some.

"Jimmy, don't start something you aren't ready to finish."

"Have you gone soft in your old age, Greg?"

His smile didn't budge. "You have five seconds to take off your shirt or you're going to find out just how soft I am."

"And how are you going to do that, old man?"

"How about I rip that ugly thing right off your back. How does that sound, you queer?"

"You don't have the guts," I said, knowing full well that's exactly the sort of thing he would do given half a chance.

"I do and I will. It seems I have to get your attention again before I fuck you into next week."

"You already have my attention."

"Do I? Is that why you're so worried about your wardrobe?"

"I paid good money for my wardrobe."

"All the more reason."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," he said, taking a few steps forward. "Are you one of those metrosexual pussies who's worried about ruining his precious shirt? Of course you are. I shouldn't expect anything less from a guy who gets a manicure and blow-dries his hair every morning. By the way, your five seconds ended twenty seconds ago."

I tried to duck out of his way, but he caught my collar. He wasn't off balance this time.

"Hold it!" I cried. "I'll take the damn shirt off, just give me a second–"

"Too late. You had your chance."

"Do you really have to ruin a perfectly good shirt just to prove a point?"

"I've ruined more for less," he said, placing a few soft kisses on my neck just to drive me insane.

My heart skipped a few beats. He was just so good at reducing me to a blubbering wreck without even trying. One of these days I might learn that he always wins when it comes to playing the twisted bedroom mind games. But then neither of us wouldn't have half as much fun as we were having now. Being a loser at this game had it's own rewards, and I was ready to collect.

"Can't we come to some kind of...compromise?" I asked, sounding a little too desperate for my liking.

Of course, Greg picked up on it the way a shark picks up the scent of blood. I tried to distract him with a few nibbles at his earlobe, threading my hands through his hair, trying to pick up where we left off in the kitchen. Distract him long enough to maneuver him to the bed and make him forget everything.

He wasn't buying it for a second. "Just what are you willing to trade for it?"

"What is there to trade?" I asked carefully. Why didn't I just take the damn shirt off and let him screw me senseless? That would have been too easy. I lost the game and this time I was really going to pay for it. The reward would be all his.

He gave me that damnable smug smile, then walked over the dresser and pulled two of my ties from his sock drawer.

"Are you going to tie me up or gag me?" I gulped.

"Both." He nodded at the bed. "Now get over there."


	11. Chapter 11

"I like this," Greg said while tying my hands together with one of my silk ties. He was smiling like he just won an Academy Award. "I should have done this a long time ago."

"Because you like being in charge?" I had to ask. "Or because you were too damn lazy to find a tie?"

"A little of both. More of the former than the latter. But you know who's in charge already," he said, his eyes blazing with a combination of lust and need. "Why aren't you struggling to get away?"

"I don't want to."

"Mmmm...submissive _and_ kinky. I like that too." He peeled off his shirt and absently tossed it on the floor. I couldn't help but lick my lips as he sat there in just a faded pair of jeans. He noticed and inched forward, drawing it all out for as long as possible. The bastard.

"I knew you would," I replied with a knowing grin.

"Did you now?"

"You know damn well I did."

"Well, you are right about that," he grinned back. "But there is one little detail that I don't like at the moment."

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You talk too much," he growled and pulled me forward, clasping my face with both hands.

"I was going to say the same thing about you," I panted, my heart galloping so hard it felt like it was going to burst through my chest. How the hell did I manage to stay away for three weeks?

"It seems we've reached a stalemate," he murmured, running those long musicians fingers through my hair. Good grief, I was going to completely lose it before the night was over. That's exactly what he wanted and exactly what he was going to get. "Whatever shall we do about it, Dr. Wilson?"

"Are you going to gag me now?"

"I _was_," he teased. Greg was so good at that, it was second nature. He wasn't even trying. "But that would make it much more difficult to kiss you. So I guess it's either you make me shut up by kissing me, or I make you shut up by gagging you. Which will it be, Jimmy?"

"Do I really have to answer?" I asked, leaning in closer.

"No."

"All right. I think we should be quiet now."

My mouth met his and all the anger, anxiety, dread, worry, fear over the past few weeks slipped away and joined his shirt on the floor as he pushed me back onto the pillows. It felt so good and so _right_ to be back with him, back where I belonged, back to a place where I was wanted and needed. That was the feeling I had been looking for all my life and burned through three marriages before I found it in the last place I thought to look. Ah, well. Enough of that now. I just wanted to feel his body against mine and lose myself for a while. Let him fuck me into next week. It could be next month for all I cared. Thankfully Greg was thinking the exact same thing.

* * *

I glanced down while pouring the batter into the rescued frying pan. The chafe marks on my wrists would probably fade before morning. If not I could easily hide them under my shirt sleeves. The gigantic hickey on my neck was another story. 

"Why don't you ever make blueberry pancakes?" Greg asked. He was looking at his handiwork and trying not to laugh.

"I don't like blueberry," I answered stoically, pretending not to notice him. "Plus you've never asked for them. I can't read your mind, Greg. You need to tell me these things."

"Put blueberries on your shopping list, Jimmy."

"I'll do that. How about strawberries?" I asked out of pure curiosity. He'd probably add to the list boysenberries just to see if I'd actually buy them.

"Yum. Sounds good to me. You might get me fat, but at least it will be with some good fucking food."

"I'm not making these every night," I said, turning to look at him. "I planning a real dinner for the near future."

"How soon is the near future?"

"Tomorrow night or the night after that."

"That is near. What's your idea of a 'real dinner'?"

"A pot roast, potatoes, and corn. Something that doesn't come in a can or plastic tray. You know, real food from the four food groups. Do you remember those?"

"Vaguely," he replied dryly.

"Well, I hope I get the chance to refresh your memory." I stacked four pancakes on a plate and handed it over. He accepted it with a faint chuckle.

"What's so funny?"

"You're going to the hospital tomorrow with a humongous hickey that everyone will know you got from _me_, and all you're worried about is dinner plans. I knew there was a reason I liked having you around." He turned to his plate before he could see my hand shoot up to my neck.

A scarf and band-aids would only make the truth more obvious.

He got me again.

I'll never learn.


	12. Chapter 12

I settled back onto the sofa to watch _Forensic Files_, feeling full and tired, and Greg flopped down next to me. I leaned into him and he pulled the blanket over us. All I wanted was some evening television. It didn't even have to be entertaining. Reruns that had been on a million times before would be just fine with me. Sometimes it wasn't worth the energy to be picky. The next I knew it was after midnight and Greg was shaking me awake. "C'mon, Sleeping Beauty," he said with faint amusement. "It's too cold to sleep out here."

"Why didn't you wake me up sooner so I could sleep in the bed?" I grumbled.

"You looked too darned cute to wake up, you big ole puppy dog."

"Is that your real reason?"

"No. Now let's say we go to bed and argue about it later."

"'Kay," I muttered, and stumbled to the bathroom. Greg limped to the bedroom without another word. Nothing like good sex followed by a good meal to make a man hit the hay early, I suppose. Hopefully it would mellow him out for a day or two and both of us could get caught up on our sleep.

I brushed my teeth and staggered to bed, a bit too tired to be proud of myself for not smacking my toe against the bed frame. Good grief, it had been a really long day. The sheets had barely settled when I felt his stubbly chin on my shoulder and his arms pull me closer. We were alone, and it was on his terms. Not that I was complaining. I enjoyed the fact that he would let his guard down when we were alone. Any other time he wouldn't be caught dead getting this snuggly with someone, unless it was to shock some unsuspecting fool who had made the mistake of staring at us for a little too long.

"Am I your pillow now?" I asked.

"If you want to be," he replied. "I'm not going to stop you."

"What do you want me to be?"

"Just be here for me, like you said you were going to be," he answered, as sincere as I'd ever heard him. "That's all I want right now."

"I'm here, Greg. I shouldn't have stayed away so long."

"You got that right. I shouldn't have either."

"What are you going to want later?"

"More pancakes. You talk too much, Jimmy. Just be quiet and go to sleep."

"I will if you will." I challenged.

And he did. He shut up and went to sleep. So did I, wondering how long my ties were going to last.

* * *

Cuddy stared at my neck the way someone stares at twisted remains of a train crash, and then turned to Greg, giving him one of those _Did you really have to? _looks. He just grinned, cocked his head at her, and asked, "What? Are you jealous?" 

"Not really," she responded, trying to make her voice sound as flat and bored as possible. She almost succeeded.

"Liar, liar, bra on fire," he chided with immense delight.

Cuddy folded her arms. "You're grade-school level wit isn't going to win you any points from me, Dr. House."

"I've got news for you, boss, it isn't supposed to. By the way, if you're interested in having a hickey of your very own, all you have to do is ask," he said, and I had the sinking feeling that he meant every word of it.

"I'll remember that, and spend the next six months trying to forget it."

"Damn right you'll never forget it, boss."

She did a pretty good job of ignoring him and turned back to me. "Would you cover that up, please?"

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy," I said stoically. There weren't any big band-aids in the apartment, so I had to put it off until arriving at the hospital. It might be a lousy reason, and I should remember to bring some king-sized band-aids home, but it was the only reason I had at the moment. Yes, I had an enormous hickey on my neck. So sue me. I dare you. Thankfully, Cuddy didn't demand any kind of explanation. I'd like to think it was because she knew I hardly asked for it, not because she wouldn't believe any excuse I had to give.

Then something occurred to me as I watched her walk to her office, her heels clicking on the freshly waxed floor–I didn't feel a shred of shame. While I did believe that my patients didn't really have to look at the huge purple blob on my neck, I didn't really care if the rest of the world stared at it. Well, I was lying. Maybe a little. But not that much.

What the hell was happening to me? Should I really be that concerned?

Should I be concerned at all?

No, I shouldn't.

I smiled to myself and followed Greg into the elevator.


	13. Chapter 13

"You heard Cuddy. You should cover that thing up, you pervert," Greg told me as I caught up to him at the elevator. "You might scare some poor impressionable child."

"Excuse me? Did you just call me a pervert?" I snapped my neck around so hard I'm surprised it didn't break.

"That's what I said. I'm pretty sure I didn't call you a _deaf_ pervert."

I lowered my voice to a rough whisper. "You all but screwed me on the kitchen floor last night and now _I'm_ the pervert?" Thankfully there weren't many people around our conversation. If they got too close they might end up scarred for life.

"That's right."

"And you call me a queer hypocrite. Am I still that too?"

"Now that you mention it..."

I narrowed my eyes at him and muttered "Mr. Pot, I'd like you to say hello to Mr. Kettle. Mr. Kettle, this is Mr. Pot. I'm sure you two will have a lot in common."

"Enough, you perverted queer hypocrite."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Pot."

I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see that we had arrived a bit early. The elevator opened and we stepped inside. We were alone and I grinned devilishly as the doors slid shut. It was payback time. It was perfect. I couldn't have timed it better if I tried. Neither of us had any pressing emergencies at the moment, and should one come up all it took was the push of a button to get back on track. Absolutely perfect. Those extra minutes were about to be put to good use instead of getting an extra cup of coffee.

The man loved surprises. Well then, it was time he got the surprise of his life.

Greg hit the floor number, then was babbling away and I wasn't listening to a word of it. I was looking up at the floor number display, waiting ever so patiently. We were between the second and third floor. No way out. My friend turned his head away for a fraction of a second. Too perfect. It was now or never. I hit the emergency stop and a split second later the elevator came to a sudden, jerking halt.

"What the...?" Greg looked up in alarm, his eyes wide and startled.

I looked over and relished his confused expression. I would have bet a million dollars he did the same thing with me the night before. "Relax," I assured him. "We're not stuck."

"Then why the hell are we stopped between floors, genius?"

"Because I stopped us, Einstein." I answered, carefully pushing him against the wall.

He stared at me as if I had just announced that I was engaged to Carmen Electra. "What in the world is wrong with you?"

"Oh...I don't know...," I said with a chuckle and began to play with his shirt collar. "It might have something to do with the fact that I've been hanging around with the head of Diagnostics a little too long. I think he's been a bad influence on me."

The stunned expression etched on his face gave way to a knowing smile. "My, my...it seems that I've created a monster."

"Yeah, it looks that way," I murmured, and began nuzzling his neck. A very distinctive gasp of shock filled the elevator. I couldn't help but chuckle.

"You_ pervert_," he muttered. I was more than amused to hear that he was breathless, and I could feel his pulse pounding in his neck. He need both the cane and the hand railing to keep himself upright. "Going at it right here in the goddamn elevator..."

I made my way up his neck and nibbled at his jawline. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," he said simply, and pulled me into a kiss to make sure I got the message. He didn't want me to stop. So I didn't. Message sent, message received.

I could have stayed there all day. That wasn't the plan, of course, but I could have anyway. The kissing and nuzzling and giggling like teenagers went by way too fast, then evaporated like a hazy dream. Reluctantly, I broke away, smoothed out my shirt and tie, and pressed the button. The metal box jerked awake and began to take us up to the fourth floor.

"You didn't have to do that," Greg told me, still looking unsteady and flushed.

"Yes, I did," I grumbled with a little annoyance as I straightened up his shirt collar. "We had our fun. Now it's time to heal the sick."

"_Hmph_," he snorted, then gave me a sly smile. "So what brought this on, Jimmy?"

"I just felt like it," I answered truthfully.

The doors slid open to reveal a perplexed Chase and an agitated Foreman.

"What happened in there?" Foreman asked, his eyes wandering all over the elevator.

"Nothing," Greg answered nonchalantly and began to limp to his office.

"Why was the elevator stopped?" Chase spoke up. "You better have the maintenance guys take a look at it. The last thing we need is for one of us to get trapped in there for hours."

"I accidentally hit the emergency stop," I said, trying to look sheepish instead of shameless. "Sorry."

"That's all?" Chase didn't look convinced.

"Yes, that's all," I said.

"If you just hit the emergency stop by mistake, why were you stopped for a good five minutes?" Chase frowned. "Why did you wait so long to start it up again?"

"It wasn't that long," I told him, turning toward my office. "I didn't realize what I did. It was just an accident. No big deal."

Foreman glanced at my neck, then shook his head. "Accidently _on purpose_," he mumbled, then followed his boss down the corridor.


	14. Chapter 14

"Talk doesn't come cheap," Greg told me after he popped a Vicodin as we walked to the elevator. "Not with me, anyway."

"You told me you were going to," I said.

"I know that, but thanks for the useless reminder anyway."

"You can't put it off forever. I'm not letting you back out of this."

"I know that, too. But like I said, talk doesn't come cheap. I need a little _incentive_ if you're going to bore me to death with your ever-so-serious rehab discussion tonight."

I frowned. "Incentive?" There had to be a catch to it, of course. He wouldn't have it any other way. One last punishment for moving out for three weeks. It was either move out or play chicken with rush hour traffic. I can't decide which one is the lesser of two evils.

He saw the look on my face and smirked. "You heard me, or have you gone deaf again, you pervert."

"What's your price?" I asked warily, pushing the DOWN button. I glanced at the shiny sliding doors, then at him. "Another round in the elevator with the pervert? Do you want Cuddy to catch us this time?"

"Tempting, but one grope in a tiny metal box is enough for today."

"What do you want?" I asked with a sigh.

"Dinner," he answered simply, like I should have known all along.

"Dinner? Like a fancy restaurant? _Now_? No way we can get in without a reservation..."

"I don't mean a restaurant," he said, leaning against the wall. "I meant dinner made by _you_."

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, revealing a tired and ruffled looking Chase.

"Oh, Hello, Dr. Wilson." The blonde doctor gave me a polite smile, then noticed his boss. "_Going_ _down_, Dr. House?" he asked with a shit-eating grin. Everyone was off the clock and the rules no longer applied.

Greg leered at his underling. "I'm game if you are."

"What?" Chase suddenly looked terrified. Gee, I wonder why.

My friend gave Chase one of his patented laser-beam stares and growled, "Right here, right now, and I want Jimmy to watch."

Chase lunged for the buttons. The color drained out of his face before the doors closed.

I rolled my eyes. "You're going to give him a complex if he doesn't sue you for sexual harassment first."

"The little wombat started it. He already has a complex or two, and they have nothing to do with me. Besides, you can't honestly stand there and tell me you wouldn't watch," Greg said with feigned disinterest, as if he was talking about having to buy more shampoo. "We were discussing dinner plans..."

"_You_ were discussing dinner plans," I said pointedly, since he brought it up and I knew what I was going to be doing all evening. "You seem to have this all planned out. I'll bet you were dreaming this up all afternoon."

"That's right. And you're going to make my dream come true."

"Am I?" Of course I was. The only question now was what I was going to have to stop and get on the way home.

"Damn right you are. I have a cane and I know how to use it."

"Do I have any say in this whatsoever?" I asked, picturing myself slaving over the stove for the next ten hours, getting fed up, and sticking my head in the oven.

"No. The more you talk, Jimmy, the more ingredients are going to be added. "

"I figured as much," I grumbled and resigned myself to my fate. "What's on the menu tonight?"

His face broke into a grin that stretched from ear to ear. "Bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. Made with your own two hands. Take-out food is off limits tonight."

"Of course it is. That would make it hell of a lot easier on me."

"And that would take all the fun out of it."

"It's all junk food. You don't need it," I scolded. He was unmoved.

"It's what I want. Only the best for me. I deserve it."

"Slave driver. What do you want for dessert?" Visions of gigantic slabs of cake and towering ice cream sundaes suddenly filled my head. I hoped there was plenty of Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet. Both of us were going to need it in a few hours.

"The shakes will be fine."

"All right." It was still a weeks worth of calories and fat in one sitting. "What do I get out of all this?"

"The joy of cooking."

"And...?"

The smile faded into a pensive expression mixed with a touch of regret. He could no longer put off the inevitable, but he was still going to try as long as he possibly could. "After we eat," he said, "you talk and I'll listen."

"Are you really going to listen to me, Greg, or should I just talk to the wall and get the same effect."

"Tell me something interesting and I just might listen. You never know." He looked down at the button. "Now how about pushing that damn thing so we can get home. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."


	15. Chapter 15

Nothing but the best for Greg, and that's exactly what he got. On my dime of course. He wouldn't have it any other way. I would, but that's another rant for another time. If this it what it took to get him to listen to me about rehab it was money well spent.

We went up and down every single aisle in the store as Greg directed to me what he wanted and how much of it should be tossed into the cart. Everything was fair game, and with Greg calling all the shots it seemed like one of everything ended up being added to the grocery list. I even got in on the act and threw a few last minute things for myself. After nearly ninety minutes of listening to "Where are the damn Cheerios?", "I want _extra sharp_ cheese, dammit!" and "Those better be crinkle cut fries or I'm taking it out of your hide.", the cart was overflowing and we were ready to go.

Three guesses as to who got to carry nearly all the grocery bags into the apartment and the first two don't count.

He made himself a milkshake, topped off with whipped cream and a pile of maraschino cherries, while I sprinkled some pepper into the hamburger patties. There was chocolate ice cream for his shake, mint chocolate chip for mine.

"Don't I get one of those?" I asked after he sat down and began to slurp at his drink.

"You've got work to do first," he answered. His shake dribbled all over his mouth. The whipped cream mustache made him look twelve years old. "I suggest you hop to it. I don't like to be kept waiting."

I gave him a thin smirk. "Save me some cherries," I said. "I bought the damn things, I should get at least one."

"Then I'll leave you at least one," my friend said, and munched on another cherry just to piss me off.

I turned back to the stove, making sure the hamburgers, bacon and fries were all sizzling and frying just right, cooking everything all the way through. The heat of the stove and the scent of the cooking food pooled all around us; it was wonderful and maddening. I tried not to look too much like I couldn't wait for the burgers to be done while Greg watched every move I made, taking in everything so he could find some little thing to tease me about later. Well, a big juicy bacon burger would make it all worth it. Tomorrow I would make sure that at least one of our meals doesn't contain enough cholesterol to choke a horse. The bacon was done; I set it aside and flipped the burgers and checked the fries. Everything was coming along just fine. I got out my ice cream and whipped up a giant shake for myself. I piled the whipped cream as high as the Washington Monument and plopped a fat cherry on top.

He raised his glass to toast my edible work of art. "Impressive," Greg said with sincere appreciation.

"Thanks." I took a big gulp and set the glass down on the counter, well out of his reach. He'd steal the cherry in a heartbeat, if not sooner, and reduce the Monument to a pile of rubble.

"Extra cheese and four pieces of bacon," he instructed as he watched me slice open the shiny new package of extra sharp cheddar.

I was tempted to put the whole damn block of cheese on his meal. That would not be a good idea, especially since I needed a calm and generally relaxed Greg House to talk to later. He wanted a nice meal and he was going to have it. I needed it too, probably a hell of a lot more than he did. The mood needed to stay light until the meal was finished; it was not the time for petty revenge.

I turned and narrowed my eyes. "Anything else? Would you like a salad and breadsticks? Or how about the moon?"

"Breadsticks sound pretty good right now."

"Too bad. We don't have any."

"Darn," he said with a wildly exaggerated frown. "And it's a new moon tonight so I guess I can't have that either."

I smiled wickedly. "I bought plenty of lettuce. Would you like a salad?"

"No, and if you burn my burger I'm going to disembowel you with a butter knife."

"Sounds appetizing," I muttered under my breath and turned back to the frying pans.

Almost ready. I let the cheese melt over the patties as Greg instructed me how to fix the bun, and what should go where: "Lettuce goes on top! Everyone knows that! Were you raised by wolves?" By the time I set the plates on the table I felt like I had been the lead surgeon in a fifteen hour operation. Come to think of it, surgery would be less grueling than cooking for Greg every night. Pickiness about cheese and bacon was generally frowned upon in the operating rooms.

"Yummy," he muttered just loud enough for me to catch. It was a compliment, and I took it as such. He carefully studied the burger while nibbling on a french fry, trying to figure out how to eat it without making a gigantic mess. Blobs of cheese oozed down onto his plate, threatening to drown a few of his fries.

I picked up my burger, dripping with A1 Sauce. "Eat up," I said, "or you're going to bed without any dessert."

"No dessert?" he echoed, then locked a crafty gaze with mine. "Sounds more like a punishment for _you_, Jimmy." With that he licked his lips, making sure I was watching every second of it. He was honestly enjoying himself. I liked that. I liked seeing him happy. I hoped I could see that more often once this whole drug charge mess was taken care of.

Still, he was toying with me. I knew he would and was more than prepared for it. He was going to delay our little talk for as long as humanly possible. But he couldn't delay it forever. He wasn't going to get around it. Not tonight. I was going to make damn sure of that.


	16. Chapter 16

The food was good and Greg was enjoying himself. I couldn't ask for anything else. We talked about patients, movies, music, keeping the mood light since we both knew what was waiting for us. He was smiling and laughing at my corny jokes. Smiling and laughing–two things he doesn't do nearly enough. Then the last french fry was eaten, the last bite of greasy burger was gone, the last dregs of the milkshakes were drained. The meal was finished. No second helpings tonight. As I gathered up the dishes he made a show of tipping a Vicodin into this mouth and dry-swallowing it.

I took the dishes to the sink and began rinsing them off. "You want a drink?" I asked, figuring a little alcohol might keep him relaxed and prevent a screaming match.

He shook his head. "I'm already stuffed to the gills," he said. "A drink would make me explode."

"And I would have to clean up the mess."

"That's hardly on your to-list for this evening." He sighed heavily and muttered, "Let's just get this over with. Please."

Fair enough. I left the rinsed but still dirty pile of plates and glasses in the sink for later and resumed my place at the table.

"Dinner was good," Greg said, and it was more than a bit unexpected. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Trying to keep me off-balance. Like blindsiding me with a random compliment was going to throw the whole off course. Nope, not tonight. We were going to talk this out even if it took all damn night and half the morning. "You said you were going into rehab."

He looked at the floor but he wasn't going to find any answers down there. "Yes, I did."

"When are you going?"

"When I'm ready."

"And when will that be?" I asked warily.

"I'll know it when the time comes," he said, as if that statement should be enough for me to say, 'Oh, you're right. How silly of me to ask to begin with. Let's go watch _The L Word_.'

I wasn't buying it. "Greg, that's not an answer."

"It is for me."

"You should check in before you go to trial," I said blithely. That got his attention. "You might win some brownie points from the jury."

His icy glare fell on me. The room was suddenly freezing. He began in a low, calm voice, "I may not have a choice as to whether I go or not–"

"You're right. You don't."

"–but don't mistake that for me wanting to actually go."

"I'm not."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that," he lied. "Are we finished here?"

He moved as if to pull himself out of the chair.

"Not by a long shot," I said sharply.

He leaned back into the chair, giving me another chilly glare. "What now?"

My turn to blindside him. "You're still afraid of losing the things that make you special, at least in your own mind."

"What things?" A trace of anxiety underneath his otherwise disinterested tone of voice.

"Your addiction, pain, limp, cane," I replied. "Without them you're just like everyone else, and you can't stand the thought."

His frosty gaze melted, now he was out-and-out stupefied at what he was hearing. "You think that I _enjoy_ being in pain?"

"To some extent, yes." I was going to tell him like it is. He wasn't going to like what he heard, but then again, I wasn't going to hold his hand and tell him that everything was going to be just fine and dandy. I didn't believe that anymore than he did; plus he'd probably murder me in my sleep if any words of the sort came tumbling from my mouth. "You have this crazy notion that your whole identity is tied up with what happened to your leg."

"I hardly _chose_ to be crippled," he seethed. "Then or _now_."

"I know you didn't choose," I said patiently. "But you choose to be miserable, you choose avoid rehab, and you choose to push people away who want nothing more than to help you. There is so much more to you than the pills and the cane. You're a brilliant doctor, an excellent musician, you're smart, funny, interesting, handsome–"

"You can cut the bullshit, Jimmy."

"It's not bullshit. I mean every word of it."

"I'm sure you do but don't think for a second that I believe any of it."

"You should."

"I don't."

"Why? It's the truth."

"Jimmy, I'm not a funny, interesting person."

"Yes, you are," I said.

"You're crazy," he said, shaking his head. "You need to get your eyes examined. I'm not that...that _person_ you see."

"Greg," I said, reaching across the table and taking his hand. "I believe what I can see. Now why can't you see it?"


	17. Chapter 17

He was unwilling or unable to accept that he was everything I said and a whole lot more. He was a good person. Dozens of people were alive today because of him. But he'd still rather flaunt his drug addiction rather than the lives he has saved. He lets all his achievements be overshadowed by that damn leg of his. And for all his arrogance he was still the neediest and most insecure person I had ever met in my entire life.

"You're a good person, Greg."

"If you say so."

"I do say so."

"I heard you the first time."

He tried to pull his hand away. I refused to let go.

"You'd rather let that fact that you're crippled take precedence over the fact that you're a damned good doctor," I pointed out. "Why?"

"When people meet me, they don't see me," he answered, still making a half-hearted attempt to escape my grip. "They see the cane, and that's all that matters to them."

"So...is that the only reason?"

"That's all the reason _they_ need, and sometimes they don't need any reason at all. That's why I don't bother to wear the white coat. They take one look at the cane and see a cripple, not a doctor. I'm crippled, I must have done something to make myself this way, and therefore I must be a weak person in every other arena of life too. People are very, very judgmental, Jimmy, believe me."

I narrowed my eyes and said, "You don't have to be."

"Be what?"

"Judgmental."

"Too late for that. All those good, decent people out there decide to judge me before I can get two words out, it's only fair that I get to judge them right back," he said, finally wrenching his arm free from my grip. "Cynicism is a very good thing to have in this day and age. That way you won't be too disappointed when you find the knife sticking out of your back."

"Is that how you saw me when I made the deal with Tritter?" I asked, sensing he was getting agitated. The only time he likes confrontation is when he is the one doing all the confronting. "Am I one of those people?"

"You were for a while. You're the exception, not the rule. You've had a dozen years to stab me to death. You would have done it by now. But I have to say that I will be more than little disappointed if I ever find a dagger with your fingerprints on the handle and my blood on the blade."

"You don't have to worry about that."

"I'll try not to."

"You should wear the doctor coat. It suits you."

"It doesn't go with the rest of my wardrobe."

I couldn't help it. I had to know the answer, so I asked, "Do I have to watch my back?"

He looked me in the eye, his expression like a blank sheet of paper. "You can never be too careful, Jimmy," he said solemnly. "But don't worry about having to dust for my prints because you're not going find them."

"I didn't think so," I said with a tiny grin. "You've had a dozen years. You would have done it by now."

He gave me a tiny smile of his own and the tension in the room went down a notch.

It didn't last long. "I want you in rehab by the end of the week," I told him.

"We'll see."

"No. There is no middle ground here. You're going to rehab by the end of the week."

"Okay."

I whipped my head around as if I'd been slapped. "That's it? You're agreeing just like that?"

"Yes, I'm agreeing. Call CNN. Call Barbara Walters. I'll even sign it in blood if you want me to."

"Wait a minute…just wait a minute," I stammered, wondering who the hell this person was and what he did to my best friend. "You're not going to argue with me?"

"Not tonight," Greg replied with a sigh. He wasn't angry or defeated or sad, just resigned to the fact that he couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. I didn't want to leave for another hotel again and there was no way in hell he wanted that either. Now his so-called principles had to take a backseat to actually doing the right thing. I just wish he had thought of this before crossing paths with Tritter. It would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.

But that's Greg for you. I've learned to accept it. We need each other in case someone else decides to sharpen a dagger.


	18. Chapter 18

I wanted to believe that he would keep his word. I really did. But a nagging little voice told me that he agreed to go to rehab just so he wouldn't have to argue about it anymore for a few days. And I still had to tell myself that there was a very real chance that I would be checking into a hotel again in the near future. Better to be safe than sorry. Like Greg, I've had to learn that lesson the hard way, more than once.

Of course, I didn't say any of that to his face since he hasn't broken his word yet. If Greg hasn't checked into rehab by Saturday I was going to rip him up one side and down the other. I was going to draw blood if it came to that.

For now I was content that he had verbally agreed to do _something_. That was a milestone as far as I was concerned.

His leg was starting to spasm. He stretched out on the sofa while I got the pillow and heating pad. I was getting ready to settle down in the easy chair, figuring he would want a little extra room for his leg. Nope, not tonight. He gave me a glare that could have melted steel and ordered me to get my sorry ass back over there. After he got comfy, which involved pinning me down with the pillow in my lap, he ordered me not to move until he said it was okay. I complied, how could I not?, and even went so far as to gently stroke the rough stubble along his cheek. Greg sighed in contentment.

That gets him every time. And I love it.

After a few mind-numbingly dull reruns and a documentary about spiders, I glanced down and saw that his eyes were closed. Too early to be asleep and he wasn't, I could tell by his breathing. The television was distracting him so he closed his eyes to focus on whatever was running through his head.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," I observed.

"Is that a bad thing?" Greg asked without opening his eyes.

"Not necessarily. I was just saying–"

"You bitch and moan when I when talk through a show and now you're bitching because I'm _not_ talking through a show. Make up your mind already."

"You've obviously got a lot on your mind..."

"Your powers of perception never fail to amaze me, Jimmy."

"Yeah, I'm a regular wizard in that department," I remarked dryly. "How's the leg?"

"It's fine."

"Any more spasms?"

"No, I just said it's fine."

"Just 'fine'?"

"It can be positively fucking dandy if it'll make you shut up about it," he grumbled, then opened his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. "I just wanna lay here and think for a while. Can I do that without any more interruptions? I've got a lot to think about and not enough time to think about it. Is it too much to ask for _you_ to be quiet for a change?"

"Sorry," I said, and turned back to the television.

"And stop being so fucking sorry about everything," he muttered, then closed his eyes again.

The next two hours passed without a word from either of us. Another documentary about various killer ant species came on and was rather interesting. Greg got up to use the bathroom once, then came back and pretty much picked up where he left off with whatever he was thinking about. The only thing that changed was that he grabbed my hand and wouldn't let me take it back. He held it to his chest and I spent the next half-hour feeling the beat of his heart.

"I want some of your mint ice-cream," he said suddenly, and pulled himself up. It was as if some internal switch had been flipped and he was done with his thinking for the night. It wasn't the first time he had done something like that. His brain must have its own built-in timer for those things.

"Haven't you had enough crap tonight, Greg?"

"No such thing when it comes to ice-cream."

I looked over and gave him my best deadpan stare. "Only if I get some of your chocolate."

"Be my guest."

"Thanks. I better not hear one word about how all your chocolate ice-cream is gone."

"If you don't put some whipped cream and cherries on it, you're going to hear about it all damn night."

"Did you even leave any cherries?"

"There might be one or two left."

I stood up and said, "Don't you even think about crying to me when you get sick and puke your guts out in the middle of night."

"If and when _you_ get sick tonight, I'll remember that," he said with a wry smile. "Be sure to save some whipped cream."

"I bought two cans. We have plenty."

"Good. Be sure to save some."

"What for?"

The wry smile broadened. "In case one or both of us gets in the mood for some _real_ dessert between now and the end of the week."


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: This chapter contains a few slight spoilers for the movie_ Alien.

* * *

We sat and watched more television and slurped down more mountains of ice cream with extra whipped cream and what was left of the cherries. The film _Alien_ came on and we were just in time for the chest-bursting scene, which kind of put a damper on my appetite. It didn't make a dent in Greg's. He ate every bit and even licked the bowl clean. How he managed to put all that away and not make himself sick remains unexplained. Then he performed the little trick where he tied a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue. That was more than a bit interesting. I nearly dropped my bowl when he showed me that, his self-satisfied smirk in plain sight. I finished my ice cream and ended up so stuffed that I had to sit for another fifteen minutes and let it all settle before I could stand up and take the dishes into the kitchen. 

I shuffled back into the living room, feeling like I weighed about four hundred pounds and declared with a barely stifled yawn, "It's been a really long day. I'm going to bed."

"No, you're not," Greg said, his eyes glinting and voice lackadaisical. "The movie isn't over yet."

"I already know how it ends."

"I don't care. Get your ass back over here."

"I'm tired...,"

"And when I give a rat's ass you'll be the first to know. Now get over here."

It was either go back to the sofa or listen to him bitch about my going to bed and leaving him by his poor little self for the next week, so I shuffled back over. The movie had about another forty-five minutes left. Greg was playing another one of his delightful power games. The deck was stacked against me, as per usual. Fine. It wasn't like that was anything new. I could live with it. But I was going to bed when the movie was over whether he liked it or not.

I flopped back down next to him and leaned into his shoulder. "We've seen this movie a million times," I said tersely.

"This is the Director's Cut," Greg pointed out. "It's only been around a few years, so we haven't seen this version a million times yet."

"Is that why you're keeping me out here, depriving me of sleep? For a few restored movie scenes?"

"I wasn't, but now that you mention it..."

I turned back to the movie and silently grumbled to myself, wondering why the huge meal hadn't put him to sleep yet.

After a few minutes of watching the seven-foot-tall beastie make mincemeat out of the humans, Greg suddenly spoke up: "I enjoy being around you. Is that so terrible?" he said.

"It is if you have to keep me awake," I answered, a bit stunned. I looked over at him. He didn't move, his eyes were glued to the TV, on a movie he could recite by heart, newer version or not.

"Quit your bitching already and just watch the movie," he said, still not looking in my direction. "Wouldn't it be cool to have two jaws?"

"That would mean an extra set of teeth to brush," I deadpanned.

"How come the alien doesn't eat the cat?"

"Hairballs," I answered, as if it were the absolute truth. "The monster dies. The end. Roll credits. Can I go to bed now, or are we going to watch the second unit director's uncensored third revision cut after this?"

"You've gotten by just fine on less sleep, Jimmy."

"Just because I _can_ get by doesn't mean I _should_."

"Truer words have never been spoken," he said cryptically, as he wrapped an arm around my shoulder. The heavy meal was finally starting to weigh him down, I could see his eyelids begin to droop. "If it makes any difference, you're the person I've always seen," he added.

"What do you see in me?" I was surprised at his statement and really wanted to know.

"All those things you said about me apply to you as well." He sounded serious. Or maybe it was just a particularly twisted mind game he dreamed up on the spot.

"I'm not a musician." I reminded my friend.

"Well...everything except _that_."

Smiling, I said, "Those things I said about you earlier, are you starting to believe they're true?"

"You believe them, and that's enough for now."

I laughed quietly and said, "You said I was crazy for believing that you are funny and interesting."

"It was only a few hours ago. I remember."

"You also said I needed to get my eyes examined."

"I remember that too."

"So...," I began slowly, "am I still the same blind, crazy person I was at dinner? Is that what you're trying to say?"

"Yeah," he answered and smiled back. "But I still love you anyway."


	20. Chapter 20

I chugged down half the bottle of Pepto-Bismol and left it sitting on the counter just in case, then stumbled to bed. Greg was already a vague lump under the blankets. The second I got under said blankets, he flung his arm over me and turned me into an improvised pillow–his own weird way of thanking me for the ice cream, I suppose. I couldn't complain; I figured our little talk would turn into another night of shouting followed by thick, resentful silence. Thankfully it had handled with a surprising degree of civility. Now all I had to do was see if he would keep his word. In the meantime I threaded my fingers through his hair. He muttered, "Mmm...that's nice", before filling the room with his snoring. I decided to follow his example and closed my eyes.

_I still love you anway._

First I heard the dull clunk of a glass being set down, then I came fully awake and saw the light stretching into the room. I blinked away the spots and saw that it was all of two in the morning, less than ninety minutes after he had finally given up and called it a night. Usually when he's up and around at some ridiculous hour he's at least polite enough to close the door. Not tonight. Hmmm...that's interesting.

I shuffled to the living room and found it empty. Then I noticed the light on in the kitchen. A few groans floated in my direction. I followed the noise into the kitchen I found Greg standing over the sink, finishing off the Pepto.

"And here I figured you had a cast-iron stomach," I said, leaning in the doorway.

Evidently he hadn't heard me walk up as he jumped and spun around, wide-eyed with shock, and dropped the bottle into the sink. Thankfully it was plastic and there was just a thudding instead of a crash and jagged pieces of glass flying everywhere.

"_Jesus_!" Greg yelped. "Don't do that to me again or I'm putting a bell around your neck." He turned back to the sink and rescued the Pepto, grumbling to himself.

"I'd like to see you try," I said coolly.

"I'd like to see you explain the bell collar to Cuddy. Then you'd really have to tell her that you're my bitch."

"What's wrong?" I asked even though I already knew the answer.

"Stomach-ache," he replied, still in his grumbling mode. "Why the hell did you let me eat that crap?"

"Um...because you wanted to?"

"Why did you let me eat _so much_?"

"You picked out all that crap right down to the last french fry and threatened to skin me alive if I didn't fix as much as you wanted, the way you wanted it? Does that sound familiar?"

He took another swig of the god-awful pink stuff and said, "You should know better than to listen to me."

"Oh, really?" I answered, more than bit amused at the way this conversation was going. " And if I hadn't made you hamburgers and french fries you'd still be bitching and moaning about how evil I am instead of bitching and moaning about an upset stomach. This is the lesser of two evils and I'll take it over your passive-aggressive bitchiness any day of the week."

"Of course. You're not the one standing over the sink while his gut is doing back flips."

"That's an interesting visual," I commented, then walked over to the counter. "You okay?"

"I'll live." He guzzled down the last of the Pepto, then unceremoniously shoved the empty bottle into my hands. I tossed it into the trash without comment.

"I hope we have some more of that stuff," Greg said.

"There's another in the cabinet."

"You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?" He gave me an accusing look.

"I just figured it would. Better to be safe than sorry." I put a hand on his shoulder. "Now do you see why I tell you not to eat like this?"

"If I stuff myself with carrots and celery until I puke will you shut up about it?"

"If you actually do that, yes."

He opened his mouth to bitch at me some more, but couldn't as he was laughing too hard. I had made him laugh instead giving him an excuse to bite my head off. Now that took talent. I wonder where it came from.

"Yeah," he snorted,. "I guess you would. I need to sit down."

He slumped into his chair and I settled into mine.

I raised an eyebrow and asked, "Feeling better?"

"A little. Give me a few more minutes and let the Pepto kick in."

"Do you need the other bottle? Is a monster going to burst out of your chest?"

"It felt like it for a while." A faint scowl crossed his face, then disappeared like smoke in a breeze. "Make something light and not greasy tomorrow."

"I was going to cook the pot roast tomorrow."

"Not anymore."

"I need to cook it before–"

"Unless you want a repeat performance of this, I suggest you put the damn thing back in the freezer for a few more days. Next time the monster might burst out of my chest and all over you."

"Another great visual," I muttered with a roll of my eyes. "Fine. My appetite has officially been ruined for the next two weeks. What do you want for dinner tomorrow?"

"Surprise me."

"Okay, I will; and if I hear one word about–"

"You won't." He looked over at me, his eyes throwing sparks from the harsh overhead light. "C'mon, lets go back to bed, unless you want to try and cuddle in the kitchen."

"No thanks," I said, getting up.

"I didn't think so. You make such a good pillow, Jimmy. Have I ever told you that?"

"No."

"Well, I'm telling you now and you better get used to being my pillow real damn quick."


	21. Chapter 21

Greg watched and waited as I climbed into bed. He eyed me with a strange look, half pleased, half predatory. I felt the thick, heavy weight of his stare as I reached over and switched off the lamp. He carefully settled himself under the covers then–right on cue–threw an arm over me and dug his scruffy chin into my shoulder. The weight and heat of his body, the feeling of his heart beating against my back, they were wonderful sensations that I could never get tired of.

"You're so damn comfy," he murmured, sleepiness creeping into his voice.

"You told me that I'm a fantabulous pillow in the kitchen." I pretended to resist and made a half-hearted effort to squirm away. His arm tightened around me like steel cable and it made me smile in the pitch black room.

"And I'm telling you again in the bedroom. These real pillows here ain't got nothing on _you_."

"Um...sure. Thanks, I guess," I said, though I wasn't positive that what he said was meant to be a full-fledged compliment. I don't think he's aware of how bizarre half the things he babbles out loud are. Even if he was utterly and completely aware he'd still keep babbling them anyway.

"Move again and I'll hogtie you to the bedposts." The half-assed threat in his voice was undercut by a loud yawn.

"I'm not moving."

"You're mine, Jimmy. All mine."

"Okay, Greg. Whatever you say."

He dug his chin in deeper until I yelped in protest, then said, "Damn right. What I say _goooeeesss_..."

That was all he had for the night. Soon the chin digging into my sensitive skin was replaced by steady, warm puffs of his breath. Sleep tight, Greg.

I was glad to see that he was feeling better. Visions of staying up half the night with him as he made endless trips to sacrifice himself to the porcelain God haunted me for a while, but now all's well that ends well. He was back in bed. The Pepto had slain the big bad monster churning around his insides, and he was ready to get his full four hours before he woke up, made himself some coffee, and waited ever so patiently for me to get up and make him breakfast.

So I get to spend another night being his pillow. If it helped him sleep better that was fine with me. I had the sneaking feeling that it was another one of his little ways of testing my limits and that he was honestly surprised that I didn't complain. There was a simple reason behind that–I didn't complain because there was nothing to complain about. Maybe he couldn't wrap his head around that concept, but I'm not asking him to. Let him dwell on it until his brain leaks out of his ears. If laying here with my best friend draped across me was _wrong_ in some way, well then, I'd really hate to see what the _right_ thing is supposed to be.

A quick glance at the clock told me it was a bit earlier than I thought. Maybe he'd get in five hours tonight and be a little less cranky in the morning and not dictate exactly how I should be cooking his eggs or pancakes. If he had a bullhorn and whip, he'd use them.

Five hours of somewhat restful sleep. Maybe I could get that too.

I entwined my fingers in his and gently pulled him a little closer, being extra careful not to disturb him. He continued to slumber away as if that's what he actually did every night instead of stare at the ceiling or watch television, and for that I was eternally grateful. I settled back and let his warmth settle over me. If I was going to be his pillow, he was going to be my blanket. It was only fair.

The horrific screech of the alarm cut through the air and I reached over to hit the switch before another clock wound up the victim of a vicious murder. The other side of the bed was a jumbled mess of twisted blankets with no one underneath. No great shock there. Golden light spilled through the half-opened door, along with the scent of fresh coffee.

When I staggered to the kitchen the next morning I was more than little surprised to see that Greg had made his own breakfast, a bowl of Corn Flakes. I made the mistake of staring at the sight of him and his own hand-poured meal and was brought out my reverie at the sound of his voice telling me to drop dead from shock later. While pouring myself some coffee I brought up the subject of pancakes. He shook his head. I suggested French toast. He turned a little green, and I think I did too. No more thick, rich, artery-clogging meals for a while. No pancakes for a while, either. I helped myself to the Corn Flakes.

As I munched away I noticed Greg perusing the morning paper. "What's new in the world today?" I asked between dripping spoonfuls.

"We're all going to hell in a handbasket," he answered without looking up from whatever article had his attention.

"You say that every day," I pointed out. "That's not new."

"That preacher's wife is going on trial and some idiot got his arm bit off by an alligator."

"Okay then." I winced at the mention of the alligator. "My appetite has officially been ruined forever."

"You're still cooking for me," Greg said blithely.

He continued to chat about what he read in the paper, the weather, his motorcycle, what he needed record off the movie channels.

He chatted about everything except going to rehab.


	22. Chapter 22

A lot has happened to me since I hooked up with Greg. Now I can hardly blame him for all that's happened–shingles, my brother, and my broken arm weren't exactly his fault–I'm just pointing the amazing string of happenings that have struck since moving into 221B. Some people might have taken that as a sign and got the hell out of Dodge while the getting was good. Not me. Greg was here to give me a shoulder to lean on when times were tough, and I needed that more than I ever thought I would. I couldn't get that in a cold, lonely hotel room and wasn't about to try again.

I caught only a glimpse of him here and there over the rest of the day, and by the time I was ready to pack it in and call it a night it was nearly seven o'clock. Greg had already left and it wasn't to go to rehab. So it was hardly a huge a surprise when I pulled up to the apartment and found his motorcycle parked in its usual spot. The faint tinkling of piano music drifted onto the sidewalk. Okay, so he was safe at home, relaxing with one of his few positive outlets. Things could be a hell of a lot worse. If I go in there and bring up the whole rehab thing, he'll just accuse me of trying to badger him to death and brood about it for the rest of the night. Then he won't check into rehab at all just to piss me off. Well then, I'll just have to remind him about keeping his word in a completely different way.

He looked up and smiled as I walked in, the stream of notes continued without a break. The music was very nice and I didn't want him to stop for the moment. I smiled back and walked up to the piano.

"Any requests?" he asked.

"No. That's just fine," I said. "Keep playing."

The music continued, his fingers flying over the black and white keys, hitting every right note and then some. I stood and listened for minute, appreciating the talent of my friend. Greg appeared absorbed with the piano and paid no attention to me, so I took the opportunity to slip from my spot and walk around behind him. I felt him tense up a bit as I put my hands on his shoulders. He didn't miss a note and continued playing as I began to massage his neck and back. The tension in him slowly drained away.

"Miss me today, Jimmy?" Greg asked without turning around.

"Sure," I answered, then threaded my fingers through a quick swipe of his hair to drive my point home. "It was tough eating my lunch today and not having anyone there to steal my chips."

"Too bad saving lives interferes with my chip stealing duties. I'll try to do better tomorrow."

"Why don't I just give you my entire lunch right now and save myself the trouble."

Soft laughter drifted over the piano notes. "Put some extra mayo on the sandwich, please."

"I'll try to remember that. What kind of chips do you want?" I kneaded my thumbs into his shoulders, the tightness there unravelling.

"Any kind is fine with me." He played for another minute before asking, "What's with the massage therapy?"

"Don't you like it?"

"If I didn't, you and my cane would be intimately acquainted right now. So what's with the massage?"

"I missed you today."

"You didn't miss me that much. I didn't disappear for three weeks, Jimmy. Something is turning the hamster wheel inside your head. What is it?"

"I decided to do you a favor, that's all."

"_Hmph_ ...you're so full of it. Lying isn't the best way to get on my good side. Why don't you tell me what's really on your mind?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Suit yourself." The piano playing continued without interruption.

Fine. I would suit myself. I leaned in, making sure he could feel my breath on his neck. "I'm going to _show_ you what's on my mind," I whispered hoarsely, and relished the few sour notes that produced as soon as his brain processed those words and their meaning. He picked right back up as if nothing had happened, the notes flowing effortlessly again.

I stood over him and loosened my tie. He didn't look in my direction, just stared at the eighty-eight keys, pretending that nobody else was there. But he knew I was there, all right. He knew I was watching his every move, my eyes were burning a hole in his back. I was close enough to hear his breath catch in his throat. He tried, and failed, to disguise it as a cough.

"Greg?" I said, pulling off the green and black striped tie.

No answer. Just more classical music from the piano.

"Greg?"

Still no answer.

I stepped a little to the side and saw that damn smirk on his face. It disappeared the moment I wrapped the tie around his throat.

I wasn't hurting him, there was enough breathing room between the tie and his neck for both of us. But it certainly let him know that it was his turn to pay some attention to me. His hands froze above the piano keys. The music stopped as if the power had gone out.

"Greg?"

"Yes?" he finally answered, his voice barely audible.

"Would you stand up, please?"

The cover went down over the piano keys, then he pushed the bench back and stood up carefully, like I was to turn the tie into a garrote if he moved too fast. The expression on his face was priceless. He was stunned, surprised, and so incredibly turned-on.

Enough with giving him directions. I tugged gently on the tie and turned him around. He opened his mouth to say something, but I had to go and crash my mouth onto his and spoil it. Whatever he had to say was forgotten for the time being. That was fine with me. By then I was so far gone that I was only dimly aware that his arms were around my back, clutching handfuls of my shirt for dear life. Faint whimpers from both of us, the sound of pure want and need and hunger. Soon there was nothing left except for him and me; the feeling was rushed to the point that it was dizzying. We were panting and moaning.

I broke away, feeling light-headed.

I looked into his eyes and nearly fell over. All the pain, hurt, vulnerability, lust, fear, longing of the last few weeks was pooled right there in his blue eyes. I saw it all, and he knew that I saw it. And he didn't care. Because he knew that nothing would go beyond the walls of this apartment.

The tie slid off his neck and fluttered to the floor. Greg didn't blink.

"Show me what else is on your mind," he said.


	23. Chapter 23

If I had to do it all over again, I think I would have just skipped all my marriages and all the heartache and trouble they caused. In the end, it just wasn't worth it, and I think, scratch that, I _know_ all the ex-Mrs. Wilsons would agree. My wives deserved better and it turned out that I couldn't give them all they wanted in a husband. I wanted to, I really did. I had the best intentions at heart. It's not that I regret ever getting married. I regret the three acrimonious divorces that ended them. I loved my wives. I can say that with a straight face and mean every word of it. Of course during my three trips down the aisle, I thought it was forever–We'd have some kids, grow old together, spoil the grandkids rotten and be buried side by side. I didn't know then what I know now...one of the hardest lessons of my life.

It only took me three short marriages to learn it. Hopefully I can do better next time.

Through all the weddings, affairs, separations and divorces, I hadn't yet realized that I was in love with my best friend. Call it a huge case of denial. Call it being unable to see the forest for the trees. Call it being too goddamn stupid to know any better. All I really know is that it took me way too long to realize what I wanted and domestic bliss wasn't it. I could have saved one or all my wives and myself a whole of lot of pain.

That was then. What's done is done, whether they be mistakes or regrets or too many marriages. Dwelling on past mistakes wasn't going to fix them. Time to concentrate on the here and now. Focus on what _is_ instead of what _was_.

He's standing by the bed, methodically unbuttoning his shirt. As I watched the charcoal gray material slip from his shoulders, all I could think of was how beautiful Greg was at that moment.

Maybe it was the way the dusky light in the bedroom illuminated the curve along his neck, or the way it brought out the highlights in his eyes. Maybe it was the way he would push the prickly exterior of his personality to the side and let himself become a vulnerable human being for a while. Smiling at me, a crooked, knowing smile. He knows that I'm enjoying what I'm seeing, and he knows that I know and, Dear God, he's so damn beautiful when he does that. I see that smile so rarely and when I do it's pure nirvana. Maybe it's all of those things. Maybe it's none of those things. By the time I finished fumbling with my buttons and shrugged out of my own shirt I didn't really care.

He's not perfect and neither am I. Perfection has never equaled beauty in my book. I love his flaws as much as I love the rest of him.

And I know he'd say the same thing about me.

I wanted to tell him how beautiful he was, I wanted to do that more than anything but had to stop myself at the last second, nearly choking on the words. The memory of our conversation at the table was still all-too-fresh in my mind.

_I'm not that person you see._

_Yes, you are. _

_You can cut the bullshit, Jimmy._

_You're a good person. Why can't you see that?_

He didn't accept it then, and the passage of only two or three days certainly hadn't changed his opinion on that. He'd just shrug it off, bat it away the compliment with some snarky comment and spoil the grace of the moment we were both enjoying immensely. It wasn't the time or the place to start a petty argument. So I kept quiet. It was the right thing to do. I didn't need to learn another lesson the hard way.

Arms around each other, skin against skin, touching each other with possessive and reckless abandon. Coarse stubble scratches at my mouth as he kisses me–a strange sensation I haven't quite got used to but find it more and more arousing each time. I suppose it's because it reminds that I'm with _this man_, and I know who's beneath the scruffy surface and he's well worth knowing. Long and lingering kisses with the a touch of his usual insistence and utter lack of finesse. That was fine, that was _him, _and he was all I wanted and more. Then I felt his hand skirt down my belly and tug at the button of my pants and all coherent thought dissolved into a blur of hands and sweat and moans and carnality, into oblivion, just him and me.

As close to perfection as we could get. It was close enough. I was afraid to get too close for fear of getting burned.

And I had already had enough of that to last into the next life.

* * *

Dinner was another bowl of cornflakes. He protested, of course, my day wasn't complete without at least one bitch session from him. I pointed out that it was light and not greasy, just what he requested, and he ate it without griping too much. 

There was still some ice cream left. Greg said his stomach could handle it. Mine could too. If not there was another bottle of Pepto. We each had one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of mint with a mountain of whipped cream and the rest of the cherries. Enough to give a us a great sugar buzz and not enough to give us a maddening case of indigestion. No complaints that time around. I would have strangled him with my tie if there had been.

I cleaned up the dishes. He found something to watch on television. Business as usual.

Not one word about rehab.

He still had two more days.


	24. Chapter 24

"Tell me something, Jimmy," he said in a playful tone, and hugged me closer as the ending credits of _Investigative Reports_ began to roll. I didn't know whether to be glad he feeling alright or be afraid for my life. Considering his reaction to me telling him all about his virtues several nights before, being afraid sounded like the right thing. Be afraid, be very afraid.

_I'm not that person you see._

"What something do you want to know?" I asked, trying not to sound as apprehensive as I felt. "You're not going to make me tell you my deepest, darkest secret, are you?"

"Not yet." He turned to me, the same playfulness in his voice showed up in his expression. "Do you remember the first time you thought about being with me?"

Well, that came out of nowhere. "Not at the moment," I answered stupidly. I didn't even know what planet I was on right then, let alone what I was thinking years ago.

"You don't have to answer now," he said, turning back to the television and flipping through the channels. "It's not like a kitten will die if you don't tell me. But if you do remember, let me know."

I don't think he really wanted to know, he just wanted to something to keep his mind off his impending troubles for a while. There were worse things he could be doing, I suppose. A silly conversation was better than a knock-down, drag-out, ear-splitting screaming match any day. There wasn't any harm in it so I decided to play along and see where we ended up. It was quiet for a while, the only voices coming from the local news, and I thought about his question.

"I guess the first time I really seriously thought about it," I began, "was when my marriage to Bonnie began to go down the toilet."

"The devil's in the details, Jimmy. Tell me."

"Actually, now that I think about it, Bonnie gave me the idea."

"You're joking." His eyes nearly fell out of his head.

"I wish."

"_Bonnie_ told you to be with me? That little pixie who couldn't even watch an episode of _The X-Files _without having nightmares for a month? I don't believe it."

"Well, it wasn't like she ordered me at gunpoint..."

"So what the hell was it? Tell me."

"We were arguing..._again_. She was yelling at me, telling me that I was always with you, giving you a shoulder to cry on and never one for her. She told me I practically lived with you anyway, why don't I just move in with you and get it over with. I slept on the couch that night and couldn't get that sentence out of my head. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded."

"Hmmm...interesting..." He sounded pleased for whatever reason. What that reason could be I couldn't even begin to guess and probably didn't want to. "Back then you were content with just _looking_."

I chuckled and said, "Well, you are nice to look at."

"Of course," he smirked, like that was a given. And it was.

"I'm just a sucker for tall, cranky diagnosticians."

"You can never have too many of those," Greg deadpanned.

"You're one of a kind."

"You're not too bad yourself."

"Thanks." I rolled my eyes and laughed softly.

"You're welcome. Now tell me this, what parts of me do you like to look at. And let's keep it above the waist for the time being."

"Your eyes," I answered immediately.

"My eyes, huh? Cliche, but a good start. Why?"

"The color...the electric blue. They're your best feature."

He grinned, and I could see that he liked my answer. "Electric blue. I've heard that before, but it fits and I'm not going to hold it against you. How about another cliche–are my eyes the window into my soul?"

"Yes."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, Greg." I said heavily, not in the mood to repeat myself a million times before he accepted it as the truth.

"What do you see in my best feature, my electric blue eyes?" he asked, then waited for the answer.

"Everything."

"I need specifics."

"Everything means everything. When your leg hurts, I can see the pain in your eyes," I began and watched his face melt into a demure and serene expression. "When you're happy or excited, your eyes glow like they've been plugged into the wall. When you're angry or upset, they can be as icy as the North Pole. Right now, they look like a clear blue sky, which tells me you're relaxed and enjoying yourself. If you want, I can make list of all your moods and how your eyes express them."

"No thanks," he told me. "Well, that was rather...intriguing. I didn't realize my eyes were so _alive_."

"Next is your beard, even if it does scratch me all to hell. It wouldn't kill you to shave more than once every ten days."

"Just can't compete with the clear blue sky," he said, and smiled down at me. "I'm a sucker for your brown eyes myself. Too bad I can't compare them to the sky, unless I want to say it's polluted sky or some stupid thing like that."

"I'm sure you'll think of something. You don't have to tell me now," I said, leaning against him and watching the rest of the news.


	25. Chapter 25

"It's the end of the week," Greg suddenly spoke up out of the blue as the news ended and Letterman came on.

"Yeah, it is." I turned and gave him a questioning look. "So what? Is it a full moon and you're going to turn into a werewolf? What's the big deal?"

"I've been waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"You disappoint me, Jimmy."

"Would you mind letting me in on what the hell you're talking about?" I asked. "What have you been waiting for and why are you disappointed in me?"

What the hell have I done now, or was he just setting me up? This ought to be good.

"I've been waiting for The Lecture," he so gallantly informed me, as if it had been scheduled and I had forgotten all about it. "I've been waiting all week for you to corner me and spew all that nonsense of how I promised to go to rehab, how I need to go to rehab, how I'm going to let you and everyone else down if I don't. Gee whiz, I count on you to be the little angel on my shoulder and you have to go and decide to take a vacation without telling me."

"I'm an angel now? Your angel?" I puzzled, wondering what bizarre point he was trying to make this time. "Um...okay, I didn't know that. And I didn't know I was on vacation either. When did that happen?"

"This week. Haven't you been paying attention? Next time go the Bahamas like everyone else," he said. "So, Doctor Angel, where's my lecture? Is it going to be tough love or are you going to wrap it up all pretty in ruffles and bows?"

"I don't have one. I lost my lecture notes when I went on my surprise vacation."

"Why not? Who's going to keep me in line if you don't?"

"I hate to break this to you, Greg, but you still have one more day."

"I do? Well, I'll be damned..." He seemed to be genuinely surprised. I guess he wasn't keeping an accurate count of the days. Either that or he was messing with my head just for the sake of messing with it. One of the few things he loved more than Vicodin.

"Yes, you do," I replied, pleased with the fact that he had at least been thinking about it over the last few days. "Tomorrow, if you could check into rehab by the end of the day, that would be great."

"If only it were that easy," he said with a frown.

I frowned in return. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that I hope you don't think that rehab is going to the magic cure-all for everything that ails me."

"I don't want you to change. I just want you to get the help you need."

"I'm not going to walk out of there as a brand new person," he went on as if he hadn't heard me. "I'm still going to crippled and in pain."

"Yes, you're crippled. Yes, you're in pain. But that's not the point here. I don't want a brand new you," I said. "I want a you that realizes you don't need the Vicodin to get by anymore."

He mulled over my words briefly, then said, "There's no one hundred percent guarantee in all of this, Jimmy. In case you haven't noticed, I've been putting it off."

Yes, he had. Any idiot could see that. He had been avoiding going to rehab. He had managed to avoid even saying the word 'rehab' over the last few days. Acting as if everything was just fine and dandy. Tomorrow would be another perfect day.

And suddenly I knew the reason why.

"What are you more afraid of," I began quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder, "relapsing or letting me down if you do relapse?"

He looked away, over my shoulder and past the sofa towards the bedroom, and I could see every bit of pain and worry and dread reflected in his eyes. "You've taken everything I've dished out and then some," Greg said. "You have to have a breaking point, and it's going to involve me one way or another. I know I need help, you know I need help, but what you don't seem to understand and what I know all too well is that needing help and wanting help are two very different things."

"You need to do this. It's not a matter of whether you want to or not," I said more tersely than I meant to, but he wasn't going to talk his way out of it. "No matter how overwhelming it might be, you have to go."

"Yeah, well, I'm aware of that," he replied absently. "I suppose I knew it would come to this sooner or later."

"It's come to this _now_, Greg."

"It's right in my face. It's blocking my view of everything else. And there's only one thing I can do to get rid of it."

"I'm glad you realize that," I said, patting his shoulder with more than a little affection. "I really am."

"Too bad the circumstances are what they are, huh? If I could hop in a time machine and do it all over again..."

I raised an eyebrow, feeling a little suspicious of this conversation. "What would you do?" I asked.

He grinned slyly and said, "I'd still leave the thermometer up that son of a bitch's ass."


	26. Chapter 26

I expected another night of being his human teddy bear, but was surprised when he rolled over on his side, leaving me a grand view of the dark blue shirt covering his back. He wasn't mad at me. I guess he just wasn't in the mood use me as his own personal living pillow. Oh well, things could be worse.

"Do you want to know what I see when I look into your eyes?" Greg muttered, his voice soft and muffled by the pile of pillows he was resting on.

"What do you see?" I asked carefully, not knowing what sort of mood he was in at the moment. I huddled under the covers and braced myself for some biting sarcastic remark followed by several hours of snoring.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes. I told you what I saw. It's only fair that you tell me what you see. So tell me."

"I see a better person than I could ever hope to be. How does that sound?"

"It sounds fine," I said, and knew he actually believed it. Whether it was true or not hardly mattered to him and never would. "But is that all you see?"

"It's all I need to see. I can't see anything else right now because I'm not looking at you. If you want I can make something up."

"You don't have to." I inched my way over there and spooned up behind him. That's why he didn't cuddle with me tonight. He wanted me to cuddle with him. He needed a few kind words and a friendly touch before he could go to sleep. Who was I to say no to that after all the times he had done the same things for me? The memory of him staying with me when I had terrible migraines flashed across my mind. I draped an arm over his waist and pressed a gentle kiss on the back of his neck.

I couldn't help it. I needed to know. "Why didn't you apologize to him when you had the chance?"

"Because he doesn't deserve an apology from me. And he still doesn't. That bastard never will."

"Was it worth it, Greg?"

"No."

Damn right it wasn't. I kept that thought to myself, lest I try and be lulled to sleep by a screaming match. It was another fight for another time. "Are you going to rehab tomorrow?"

"We'll see."

"You told me you would."

"We'll see."

"Greg, you said–"

"Jimmy, don't push it. Save it for tomorrow." He was quiet for about a minute, then he said, "All that stuff you said about my eyes..."

"Yeah, what about it?" I held my breath and waited for his response.

"It was nice."

And it was nicer to hear him say that.

He continued with, "It sounded like you had been thinking about it for a long, long while."

"I've had a long time to think about it," I reminded him.

"Thirteen years is quite a long time to think about such trivial things, even for a hopeless romantic like you."

I've never thought of myself as a hopeless romantic. It made me wonder what other weird things he thought about me. I decided to ask later or he might feel compelled to tell them all and keep me up the rest of the night. Instead I just said, "You told me that you liked it, so it was time well spent."

"Will you think about it for thirteen more years?"

"If you want me to."

"If you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all."

"Thank you, Jimmy."

"You're welcome."

* * *

Who knows what goes on inside his head when he's dreaming. Some day I might figure out a way to ask him about it without sound like a complete moron. I could see his eyes moving back and forth under the closed lids. Whatever he was seeing in there must have been pleasant enough; there's a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, then it faded and he buried his head deeper into the pillow. Maybe he'll see whatever made him almost smile again before the alarm goes off. 

I reach over and gently swipe my thumb across his cheek. He twitched and turned his head away from my touch. I don't want to wake him so I had to settle for looking. Let him get a little more sleep. He was going to need it.

Today was the day. No turning back after this. Today we would all see if he could be a better person.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: I'll be winding down this story over the next few chapters. Thanks again everyone and special thanks to Purridot!_

* * *

I got up a little early and had a big stack of blueberry pancakes and a pot of hot coffee ready by the time Greg came stumbling to the table. He even thanked me for such a nice breakfast. Well, that was tad bit unexpected. Maybe next the sky will fall in. Before joining him with my own mountainous breakfast I stuck the post roast into the crock pot. The damn thing was getting cooked today one way or the other. 

I sat down and was reaching for the syrup when he said, "I can see right through you."

I glanced over at him, then back to my breakfast. "I know." He would have to blind to not see what I was doing, but I kept that to myself. No reason to argue over his ability to read me. It would be like arguing over the fact that he has blue eyes. In other words–a pointless argument. I didn't want that this morning. I just wanted a decent breakfast and so did he.

"You're really going out of your way here," he said.

"I wanted to do something nice for you this morning. So what? I thought you liked my cooking."

"I do like your cooking, but that's not what I'm talking about. First there was you all but screwing me on the piano, and now this grand meal. I have to say _bravo_ for all the effort you've put forth over the past week. Especially the piano thing. You must have been a porn star in another life."

That was one off-the-wall compliment I hoped he wouldn't repeat in public.

"You don't seem to mind all my effort," I noted. "I take very good care of you, if I do say so myself. And you certainly didn't seem to mind the piano thing."

"Can't say that I did."

"I never heard anyone could scream my name that loud. I'm surprised the paint didn't crack."

"I can scream it again if you want, just let me finish my pancakes. I don't want any paint getting into them."

"I can only wonder what the neighbors thought."

"They probably thought that there are two men in 221B fucking each other's brains out."

"You just have to be really crude about it, don't you?" I grumbled over my demolished breakfast. That was Greg for you. Always able to find the vulgar even in the nicest of situations. If Mother Theresa had come to the hospital he would have cracked a joke about it. But he would have been polite and waited until she was out of earshot. I hope.

"Were you expecting flowers and love letters, Dr. Scream-My-Name? You should really know better," he smirked. "You do all that romantic crap, I do crude. You're the Ying to my Yang. The pork to my beans. The milk to my cookies."

"I feel so honored."

"You should."

"You going to rehab today, Greg?" I looked over and waited for his response.

"We'll see." Cool as a cucumber. He didn't even flinch. "How will you remind me again if I don't? Screw me in your office?"

"Are you–"

"Screw me in Cuddy's office? Now that would be something–"

"Do you want me to leave again? Is that what you want?" I let those questions hang in the air like feathers on a breeze, then they fluttered to the floor.

He paused, then muttered, "No."

"You said you were going to."

"I know."

"Are you going to rehab?"

"We'll see. All right?"

"I want a straight answer, a yes or a no. Is that asking too much? I just want a straight answer."

"You're not getting one."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have a straight answer to give you right now." His gaze locked with mine and he grinned. "But you have to admit that the idea of you and I screwing in Cuddy's office is kind of hot."

Several hours later he got the court summons and made a mad dash to the rehab clinic.

I wanted to believe that he would gone anyway, not to just make a last ditch effort to stay out of prison.

There was only one way to find out. I was going to have to ask him point blank. But I would have to wait and see if he was going to serve any time.


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: I didn't mean to end this so abruptly, it just kind of...happened. Anyways, thanks everyone!_

* * *

Even under the best of circumstances I think Greg and Tritter would be at each others throats. In a perfect world they might tolerate each other, but this world is far from perfect, and Greg's tendency to rub people the wrong way finally caught up to him. Of course he didn't mean for everyone around him to end up paying for it, but it happened and we dealt with it. The trial is over. Cuddy perjured herself to save his ass. I give it a day before she tries to use that against him. I give it thirty seconds after that before Greg throws it back in her face using a knuckleball. 

He's spending a night in jail for contempt. He can handle it, I just don't know if his leg can handle the bed that looks as comfortable as a block of concrete.

Good circumstances or not, everyone of us is hoping like hell that we never have to see that jackass Tritter ever again.

Greg went through rehab. Amazing, but true. He hated every second of it. It didn't do a whole lotta good, I know that much. But he kept his promise. I just need to know if kept it for me.

* * *

I was finally able to get the damn pot roast into the crockpot before I picked Greg up. The smell of it spilled out into the hallway when I opened the door. 

"Smells good," he said as soon as we stepped in the door of the apartment. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes," I answered. "It's not quite done yet."

"I wanted roast duck with orange sauce."

"You lose. It's that or the stale remains of the Cheerios. Feel free to pick the latter. More roast for me."

"Yummy. What's for dessert?"

"There's ice cream in there. Mint chocolate chip." I bought the ice cream the day before. Comfort food. I had already polished off one gallon but he didn't need to know that.

"Any more goodies to choose from?"

"No, that's all I got. Sorry."

"_Hmph_," he grumbled, and limped to the sofa. "Bake a cake and write 'The Jailbird is Home' on it."

"I'll think about it," I said, watching him settle into the cushions and lift his leg onto the table. He grimaced a bit and massaged his thigh. The jailhouse bed must have been torture. "You want a Pepsi?" Catering to his every whim would take the edge off and make him a little more chatty.

He gave me one of those crooked smiles, the kind that knows he has me wrapped around his finger. Or at least thinks he does. "That would be _lovely_."

I got a bottle for each of us, then joined him on the sofa.

"Welcome home," I said, and raised my glass in a toast.

"Thanks."

"I'm sure Tritter was thrilled to hear the news."

"Fuck Tritter." He scowled and gulped down half his drink. "I never want to hear that prick's name again."

"Fair enough." Deciding it was a good idea to change the subject, I said, "You kept your promise."

"What promise?"

"You went to rehab."

"That I did." He turned his attention away from his now half-empty drink and looked me square in the eye. "And you're still going to bug me to death about it, aren't you? Can't you just ever let something drop? You're worse than me. Let's just watch some TV for a while." He picked up the remote, clicking the television on. _The Long Kiss Goodnight _showed up on the screen. Greg left it there. "When's dinner going to be ready?"

"In a while. How was rehab?"

"It sucked on toast."

"Is that all?"

"That's all you need to know."

"I'd like to know more."

"And I'd rather not talk about it right now, if that's alright with you," he said curtly, letting me know what he really thought about rehab and the current conversation. "I spent the night in hell. Can I stretch out and relax for a little while?"

I kept pressing on anyway. "You said promises were made to be broken. Why didn't you break this one?"

"Because I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Which answer will make you shut up about it?"

"Just answer me. All I want is an answer."

"No, you want a _specific_ answer." He tore his gaze away from the television long enough to give me an icy, letting me know I was pushing my limits. "Just tell me what you want me to say, Jimmy. What do you want me to say?"

"Did you go to rehab to stay out of jail or did you go to keep your promise to me?" I asked quietly, limits be damned.

He continued to stare at the TV.

"Which one was it, Greg?"

I watched him watching the movie. It continued to play as he watched, chewing on his thumbnail. Then he blindly reached out and grabbed my shirt collar, pulling me over to him. His arm settled around my shoulder as I snuggled up and watched the rest of the movie.

I had my answer.

–The End.


End file.
